ANGELES 


[See  page  09 
BILLY    STOOD    BEFORE    HER    WITHOUT    A    WORD   ON    HIS   LIPS 


ISOBEL 

A  ROMANCE  OF 
THE  NORTHERN  TRAIL 


BY 

JAMES  OLIVER  CURWOOD 

AUTHOB  OF 
"  FLOWEB  OF  THE  NOBTH,"  BTC. 


HARPER  &  BROTHERS  PUBLISHERS 

NEW  YORK   AND   LONDON 

MCMXIII 


COPYRIGHT.    1913.    BY   HARPER  a    BROTHERS 


PUBLISHED    MAY.    1813 


C-N 


TO 
CARLOTTA 

WHO    IS    WITH    ME    AND    TO 
V  I  O  LA 

WHO    FILLS    FOR    ME  A   DREAM   OF  THE  FUTURE 
1   AFFECTIONATELY    DEDICATE    THIS    BOOK 


2128738 


CONTENTS 

CHAP.  PAGE 

I.  THE  MOST  TERRIBLE  THING  IN  THE  WORLD  i 

II.  BILLY  MEETS  THE  WOMAN 14 

III.  "!N  HONOR  OF  THE  LIVING"       22 

IV.  THE  MAN-HUNTERS 38 

V.  BILLY  FOLLOWS  ISOBEL 54 

VI.  THE  FIGHT 68 

VII.  THE  MADNESS  OF  PELLITER 81 

VIII.  LITTLE  MYSTERY 94 

IX.  THE  SECRET  OF  THE  DEAD 105 

X.  IN  DEFIANCE  OF  THE  LAW 118 

XI.  THE  NIGHT  OF  PERIL 133 

XII.  LITTLE  MYSTERY  FINDS  HER  OWN  ....  142 

XIII.  THE  Two  GODS 157 

XIV.  THE  SNOW-MAN 168 

XV.  LE  MORT  ROUGE — AND  ISOBEL 173 

XVI.  THE  LAW — MURDERER  OF  MEN 186 

XVII.  ISOBEL  FACES  THE  ABYSS 201 

XVIII.  THE  FULFILMENT  OF  A  PROMISE      ....  213 

XIX.  A  PILGRIMAGE  TO  THE  BARREN 228 

XX.  THE  LETTER 239 

XXI.  THE  FIGHTING  SPARK 247 

XXII.  INTO  THE  SOUTH 255 

XXIII.  AT  THE  END  OF  THE  TRAIL 270 


ISOBEL 


JTT* 


ISOBEL 


THE   MOST  TERRIBLE   THING   IN   THE   WORLD 

AT  Point  Fullerton,  one  thousand  miles 
straight  north  of  civilization,  Sergeant 
William  MacVeigh  wrote  with  the  stub  end  of  a 
pencil  between  his  fingers  the  last  words  of  his 
semi-annual  report  to  the  Commissioner  of  the 
Royal  Northwest  Mounted  Police  at  Regina. 

He  concluded: 

"/  beg  to  say  that  I  have  made  every  effort  to 
run  down  Scottie  Deane,  the  murderer.  I  have  not 
given  up  hope  of  finding  him,  but  I  believe  that  he 
has  gone  from  my  territory  and  is  probably  now 
somewhere  within  the  limits  of  the  Fort  Churchill 
patrol.  We  have  hunted  the  country  for  three 
hundred  miles  south  along  the  shore  of  Hudson's 
Bay  to  Eskimo  Point,  and  as  far  north  as  Wagner 


ISOBEL 

Inlet.  Within  three  months  we  haw  made  three 
patrols  west  oj  ike  Bay,  trawling  sixteen  hundred 
miles  without  finding  our  man  or  word  oj  him.  I 
respectfully  advise  a  close  watch  of  the  patrols  south 
of  the  Barren  Lands.'' 

"There!"  said  MacVeigh  aloud,  straightening 
his  rounded  shoulders  with  a  groan  of  relief. 
"It's  done." 

From  his  bunk  in  a  corner  of  the  little  wind 
and  storm  beaten  cabin  which  represented  Law 
at  the  top  end  of  the  earth  Private  Pelliter  lifted 
a  head  wearily  from  his  sick  bed  and  said: 
"I'm  bloomin'  glad  of  it,  Mac.  Now  mebbe 
you'll  give  me  a  drink  of  water  and  shoot  that 
devilish  huskie  that  keeps  howling  every  now 
and  then  out  there  as  though  death  was  after 


me." 


"Nervous?"  said  MacVeigh,  stretching  his 
strong  young  frame  with  another  sigh  of  satis- 
faction. "What  if  you  had  to  write  this  twice 
a  year?"  And  he  pointed  at  the  report. 

"It  isn't  any  longer  than  the  letters  you  wrote 
to  that  girl  of  yours — " 

Pelliter  stopped  short.  There  was  a  mo- 
ment of  embarrassing  silence.  Then  he  added, 
bluntly,  and  with  a  hand  reaching  out:  "I  beg 
your  pardon,  Mac.  It's  this  fever.  I  forgot 


THE   MOST    TERRIBLE   THING 

for  a  moment  that — that  you  two — had  broken." 

"That's  all  right,"  said  MacVeigh,  with  a 
quiver  in  his  voice,  as  he  turned  for  the  water. 

"You  see,"  he  added,  returning  with  a  tin 
cup,  "this  report  is  different.  When  you're 
writing  to  the  Big  Mogul  himself  something 
gets  on  your  nerves.  And  it  has  been  a  bad 
year  with  us,  Pelly.  We  fell  down  on  Scottie, 
and  let  the  raiders  from  that  whaler  get  away 
from  us.  And —  By  Jo,  I  forgot  to  mention 
the  wolves!" 

"Put  in  a  P.  S.,"  suggested  Pelliter. 

"A  P.  S.  to  his  Royal  Nibs!"  cried  MacVeigh, 
staring  incredulously  at  his  mate.  "There's  no 
use  of  feeling  your  pulse  any  more,  Pelly.  The 
fever's  got  you.  You're  sure  out  of  your  head." 

He  spoke  cheerfully,  trying  to  bring  a  srilile  to 
the  other's  pale  face.  Pelliter  dropped  back 
with  a  sigh. 

"No — there  isn't  any  use  feeling  my  pulse," 
he  repeated.  "It  isn't  sickness,  Bill — not  sick- 
ness of  the  ordinary  sort.  It's  in  my  brain — 
that's  where  it  is.  Think  of  it — nine  months 
up  here,  and  never  a  glimpse  of  a  white  man's 
face  except  yours.  Nine  months  without  the 
sound  of  a  woman's  voice.  Nine  months  of 
just  that  dead,  gray  world  out  there,  with  the 

3 


ISOBEL 

northern  lights  hissing  at  us  every  night  like 
snakes  and  the  black  rocks  staring  at  us  as 
they've  stared  for  a  million  centuries.  There 
may  be  glory  in  it,  but  that's  all.  We're 
'eroes  all  right,  but  there's  no  one  knows  it  but 
ourselves  and  the  six  hundred  and  forty-nine 
other  men  of  the  Royal  Mounted.  My  God, 
what  I'd  give  for  the  sight  of  a  girl's  face,  for 
just  a  moment's  touch  of  her  hand!  It  would 
drive  out  this  fever,  for  it's  the  fever  of  loneli- 
ness, Mac — a  sort  of  madness,  and  it's  splitting 
my  'ead." 

"Tush,  tush!"  said  MacVeigh,  taking  his 
mate's  hand.  "Wake  up,  Pelly!  Think  of 
what's  coming.  Only  a  few  months  more  of  it, 
and  we'll  be  changed.  And  then — think  of 
what  a  heaven  you'll  be  entering.  You'll  be 
able  to  enjoy  it  more  than  the  other  fellows,  for 
they've  never  had  this.  And  I'm  going  to 
bring  you  back  a  letter — from  the  little  girl— 

Pelliter's  face  brightened. 

' '  God  bless  her !"  he  exclaimed.  ' '  There'll  be 
letters  from  her — a  dozen  of  them.  She's  waited 
a  long  time  for  me,  and  she's  true  to  the  bottom 
of  her  dear  heart.  You've  got  my  letter  safe?" 

"Yes." 

MacVeigh  went  back  to  the  rough  little  table 
4 


THE    MOST   TERRIBLE    THING 

and  added  still  further  to  his  report  to  the 
Commissioner  of  the  Royal  Mounted  in  the 
following  words: 

"Pelliter  is  sick  with  a  strange  trouble  in  his 
head.  At  times  I  have  been  afraid  he  was  going 
mad,  and  if  he  lives  I  advise  his  transfer  south 
at  an  early  date.  I  am  leaving  for  Churchill  two 
weeks  ahead  of  the  usual  time  in  order  to  get 
medicines.  I  also  wish  to  add  a  word  to  what  I 
said  about  wolves  in  my  last  report.  We  have 
seen  them  repeatedly  in  packs  of  from  fifty  to  one 
thousand.  Late  this  autumn  a  pack  attacked  a 
large  herd  of  traveling  caribou  fifteen  miles  in  from 
the  Bay,  and  we  counted  the  remains  of  one  hun- 
dred and  sixty  animals  killed  over  a  distance  of 
less  than  three  miles.  It  is  my  opinion  that  the 
wolves  kill  at  least  five  thousand  caribou  in  this 
patrol  each  year. 

"I  have  the  honor  to  be,  sir, 

"Your  obedient  servant, 

"WILLIAM  MACVEIGH,  Sergeant, 

"In  charge  of  detachment.11 

He  folded  the  report,  placed  it  with  other  treas- 
ures in  the  waterproof  rubber  bag  which  always 
went  into  his  pack,  and  returned  to  Pelliter's  side. 

5 


ISOBEL 

"I  hate  to  leave  you  alone,  Pelly,"  he  said. 
"But  I'll  make  a  fast  trip  of  it — four  hundred 
and  fifty  miles  over  the  ice,  and  I'll  do  it  in  ten 
days  or  bust.  Then  ten  days  back,  mebbe  two 
weeks,  and  you'll  have  the  medicines  and  the 
letters.  Hurrah!" 

"Hurrah!"  cried  Pelliter. 

He  turned  his  face  a  little  to  the  wall.  Some- 
thing rose  up  in  MacVeigh's  throat  and  choked 
him  as  he  gripped  Pelliter's  hand. 

"My  God,  Bill,  is  that  the  sun?"  suddenly 
cried  Pelliter. 

MacVeigh  wheeled  toward  the  one  window  of 
the  cabin.  The  sick  man  tumbled  from  his 
bunk.  Together  they  stood  for  a  moment  at 
the  window,  staring  far  to  the  south  and  east, 
where  a  faint  red  rim  of  gold  shot  up  through  the 
leaden  sky. 

"It's  the  sun,"  said  MacVeigh,  like  one  speak- 
ing a  prayer. 

"The  first  in  four  months,"  breathed  Pelliter. 

Like  starving  men  the  two  gazed  through  the 
window.  The  golden  light  lingered  for  a  few 
moments,  then  died  away.  Pelliter  went  back 
to  his  bunk. 

Half  an  hour  later  four  dogs,  a  sledge,  and  a 
man  were  moving  swiftly  through  the  dead  and 

6 


THE    MOST    TERRIBLE    THING 

silent  gloom  of  Arctic  day.  Sergeant  MacVeigh 
was  on  his  way  to  Fort  Churchill,  more  than  four 
hundred  miles  away. 

This  is  the  loneliest  journey  in  the  world,  the 
trip  down  from  the  solitary  little  wind-beaten 
cabin  at  Point  Fullerton  to  Fort  Churchill. 
That  cabin  has  but  one  rival  in  the  whole  of  the 
Northland — the  other  cabin  at  Herschel  Island, 
at  the  mouth  of  the  Firth,  where  twenty-one 
wooden  crosses  mark  twenty-one  white  men's 
graves.  But  whalers  come  to  Herschel.  Unless 
by  accident,  or  to  break  the  laws,  they  never 
come  in  the  neighborhood  of  Fullerton.  It  is 
at  Fullerton  that  men  die  of  the  most  terrible 
thing  in  the  world — loneliness.  In  the  little 
cabin  men  have  gone  mad. 

The  gloomy  truth  oppressed  MacVeigh  as  he 
guided  his  dog  team  over  the  ice  into  the  south. 
He  was  afraid  for  Pelliter.  He  prayed  that 
Pelliter  might  see  the  sun  now  and  then.  On 
the  second  day  he  stopped  at  a  cache  of  fish 
which  they  had  put  up  in  the  early  autumn  for 
dog  feed.  He  stopped  at  a  second  cache  on 
the  fifth  day,  and  spent  the  sixth  night  at  an 
Eskimo  igloo  at  Blind  Eskimo  Point.  Late 
on  the  ninth  day  he  came  into  Fort  Churchill, 

7 


ISOBEL 

with  an  average  of  fifty  miles  a  day  to  his 
credit. 

From  Fullerton  men  came  in  nearer  dead  than 
alive  when  they  made  the  hazard  in  winter. 
MacVeigh's  face  was  raw  from  the  beat  of  the 
wind.  His  eyes  were  red.  He  had  a  touch  of 
runner's  cramp.  He  slept  for  twenty-four  hours 
in  a  warm  bed  without  stirring.  When  he 
awoke  he  raged  at  the  commanding  officer  of 
the  barrack  for  letting  him  sleep  so  long,  ate 
three  meals  in  one,  and  did  up  his  business  in  a 
hurry. 

His  heart  warmed  with  pleasure  when  he 
sorted  out  of  his  mail  nine  letters  for  Pelliter, 
all  addressed  in  the  same  small,  girlish  hand. 
There  was  none  for  himself — none  of  the  sort 
which  Pelliter  was  receiving,  and  the  sickening 
loneliness  within  him  grew  almost  suffocating. 

He  laughed  softly  as  he  broke  a  law.  He 
opened  one  of  Pelliter's  letters — the  last  one 
written — and  calmly  read  it.  It  was  filled  with 
the  sweet  tenderness  of  a  girl's  love,  and  tears 
came  into  his  red  eyes.  Then  he  sat  down  and 
answered  it.  He  told  the  girl  about  Pelliter, 
and  confessed  to  her  that  he  had  opened  her 
last  letter.  And  the  chief  of  what  he  said  was 
that  it  would  be  a  glorious  surprise  to  a  man 

8 


who  was  going  mad  (only  he  used  loneliness  in 
place  of  madness)  if  she  would  come  up  to 
Churchill  the  following  spring  and  marry  him 
there.  He  told  her  that  he  had  opened  her 
letter  because  he  loved  Pelliter  more  than  most 
men  loved  their  brothers.  Then  he  resealed  the 
letter,  gave  his  mail  to  the  superintendent, 
packed  his  medicines  and  supplies,  and  made 
ready  to  return. 

On  this  same  day  there  came  into  Churchill  a 
halfbreed  who  had  been  hunting  white  foxes 
near  Blind  Eskimo,  and  who  now  and  then  did 
scout  work  for  the  department.  He  brought 
the  information  that  he  had  seen  a  white  man 
and  a  white  woman  ten  miles  south  of  the 
Maguse  River.  The  news  thrilled  MacVeigh. 

"I'll  stop  at  the  Eskimo  camp,"  he  said  to  the 
superintendent.  "It's  worth  investigating,  for 
I  never  knew  of  a  white  woman  north  of  sixty  in 
this  country.  It  might  be  Scottie  Deane." 

"Not  very  likely,"  replied  the  superintendent. 
"Scottie  is  a  tall  man,  straight  and  powerful. 
Coujag  says  this  man  was  no  taller  than  himself, 
and  walked  like  a  hunchback.  But  if  there  are 
white  people  out  there  their  history  is  worth 
knowing." 

The  following  morning  MacVeigh  started 
9 


ISOBEL 

north.  He  reached  the  half-dozen  igloos  which 
made  up  the  Eskimo  village  late  the  third  day. 
Bye-Bye,  the  chief  man,  offered  him  no  en- 
couragement. MacVeigh  gave  him  a  pound 
of  bacon,  and  in  return  for  the  magnificent 
present  Bye-Bye  told  him  that  he  had  seen  no 
white  people.  MacVeigh  gave  him  another 
pound,  and  Bye-Bye  added  that  he  had  not 
heard  of  any  .white  people.  He  listened  with 
the  lifeless  stare  of  a  walrus  while  MacVeigh 
impressed  upon  him  that  he  was  going  inland 
the  next  morning  to  search  for  white  people 
whom  he  had  heard  were  there.  That  night, 
in  a  blinding  snow-storm,  Bye-Bye  disappeared 
from  camp. 

MacVeigh  left  his  dogs  to  rest  up  at  the 
igloo  village  and  swung  northwest  on  snow-shoes 
with  the  break  of  arctic  dawn,  which  was  but 
little  better  than  the  night  itself.  He  planned 
to  continue  in  this  direction  until  he  struck  the 
Barren,  then  patrol  in  a  wide  circle  that  would 
bring  him  back  to  the  Eskimo  camp  the  next 
night.  From  the  first  he  was  handicapped  by 
the  storm.  He  lost  Bye-Bye's  snow-shoe  tracks 
a  hundred  yards  from  the  igloos.  All  that  day 
he  searched  in  sheltered  places  for  signs  of  a 
camp  or  trail.  In  the  afternoon  the  wind  died 
10 


THE   MOST   TERRIBLE   THING 

away,  the  sky  cleared,  and  in  the  wake  of  the 
calm  the  cold  became  so  intense  that  trees 
cracked  with  reports  like  pistol  shots. 

He  stopped  to  build  a  fire  of  scrub  bush  and 
eat  his  supper  on  the  edge  of  the  Barren  just  as 
the  cold  stars  began  blazing  over  his  head.  It 
was  a  white,  still  night.  The  southern  timber- 
line  lay  far  behind  him,  and  to  the  north  there 
was  no  timber  for  three  hundred  miles.  Be- 
tween those  lines  there  was  no  life,  and  so  there 
was  no  sound.  On  the  west  the  Barren  thrust 
itself  down  in  a  long  finger  ten  miles  in  width, 
and  across  that  MacVeigh  would  have  to  strike 
to  reach  the  wooded  country  beyond.  It  was 
over  there  that  he  had  the  greatest  hope  of  dis- 
covering a  trail.  After  he  had  finished  his 
supper  he  loaded  his  pipe,  and  sat  hunched 
close  up  to  his  fire,  staring  out  over  the  Barren. 
For  some  reason  he  was  filled  with  a  strange  and 
uncomfortable  emotion,  and  he  wished  that  he 
had  brought  along  one  of  his  tired  dogs  to  keep 
him  company. 

He  was  accustomed  to  loneliness;  he  had 
laughed  in  the  face  of  things  that  had  driven 
other  men  mad.  But  to-night  there  seemed  to 
be  something  about  him  that  he  had  never 
known  before,  something  that  wormed  its  way 

2  II 


ISOBEL 

deep  down  into  his  soul  and  made  his  pulse  beat 
faster.  He  thought  of  Pelliter  on  his  fever  bed, 
of  Scottie  Deane,  and  then  of  himself.  After  all, 
was  there  much  to  choose  between  the  three  of 
them? 

A  picture  rose  slowly  before  him  in  the  bush- 
fire,  and  in  that  picture  he  saw  Scottie,  the  man- 
hunted  man,  fighting  a  great  fight  to  keep  him- 
self from  being  hung  by  the  neck  until  he  was 
dead;  and  then  he  saw  Pelliter,  dying  of  the 
sickness  which  comes  of  loneliness,  and  beyond 
those  two,  like  a  pale  cameo  appearing  for  a 
moment  out  of  gloom,  he  saw  the  picture  of  a 
face.  It  was  a  girl's  face,  and  it  was  gone  in  an 
instant.  He  had  hoped  against  hope  that  she 
would  write  to  him  again.  But  she  had  failed 
him. 

He  rose  to  his  feet  with  a  little  laugh,  partly  of 
joy  and  partly  of  pain,  as  he  thought  of  the  true 
heart  that  was  waiting  for  Pelliter.  He  tied 
on  his  snow-shoes  and  struck  out  over  the  Bar- 
ren. He  moved  swiftly,  looking  sharply  ahead 
of  him.  The  night  grew  brighter,  the  stars 
more  brilliant.  The  zipp,  zipp,  zipp  of  the  tails 
of  his  snow-shoes  was  the  only  sound  he  heard 
except  the  first  faint,  hissing  monotone  of  the 
aurora  in  the  northern  skies,  which  came  to  him 

12 


THE    MOST   TERRIBLE    THING 

like  the  shivering  run  of  steel  sledge  runners  on 
hard  snow. 

In  place  of  sound  the  night  about  him  began 
to  fill  with  ghostly  life.  His  shadow  beckoned 
and  grimaced  ahead  of  him,  and  the  stunted 
bush  seemed  to  move.  His  eyes  were  alert  and 
questing.  Within  himself  he  reasoned  that  he 
would  see  nothing,  and  yet  some  unusual  in- 
stinct moved  him  to  caution.  At  regular  inter- 
vals he  stopped  to  listen  and  to  sniff  the  air  for 
an  odor  of  smoke.  More  and  more  he  became 
like  a  beast  of  prey.  He  left  the  last  bush  behind 
him.  Ahead  of  him  the  starlit  space  was  now  un- 
broken by  a  single  shadow.  Weird  whispers  came 
with  a  low  wind  that  was  gathering  in  the  north. 

Suddenly  MacVeigh  stopped  and  swung  his 
rifle  into  the  crook  of  his  arm.  Something  that 
was  not  the  wind  had  come  up  out  of  the  night. 
He  lifted  his  fur  cap  from  his  ears  and  listened. 
He  heard  it  again,  faintly,  the  frosty  singing  of 
sledge  runners.  The  sledge  was  approaching 
from  the  open  Barren,  and  he  cleared  for  action. 
He  took  off  his  heavy  fur  mittens  and  snapped 
them  to  his  belt,  replaced  them  with  his  light 
service  gloves,  and  examined  his  revolver  to  see 
that  the  cylinder  was  not  frozen.  Then  he 
stood  silent  and  waited. 

13  -»- 


II 

BILLY   MEETS   THE   WOMAN 

OUT  of  the  gloom  a  sledge  approached 
slowly.  It  took  form  at  last  in  a  dim 
shadow,  and  MacVeigh  saw  that  it  would  pass 
very  near  to  him.  He  made  out,  one  after 
another,  a  human  figure,  three  dogs,  and  the 
toboggan.  There  was  something  appalling  in 
the  quiet  of  this  specter  of  life  looming  up  out 
of  the  night.  He  could  no  longer  hear  the 
sledge,  though  it  was  within  fifty  paces  of  him 
The  figure  in  advance  walked  slowly  and  with 
bowed  head,  and  the  dogs  and  the  sledge  fol- 
lowed in  a  ghostly  line.  Human  leader  and 
animals  were  oblivious  to  MacVeigh,  silent  and 
staring  in  the  white  night.  They  were  opposite 
him  before  he  moved. 

Then  he  strode  out  quickly,  with  a  loud 
holloa.  At  the  sound  of  his  voice  there  followed 
a  low  cry,  the  dogs  stopped  in  their  traces,  and 
the  figure  ran  back  to  the  sledge.  MacVeigh 

14 


BILLY    MEETS   THE   WOMAN 

drew  his  revolver.  Half  a  dozen  long  strides 
and  he  had  reached  the  sledge.  From  the  oppo- 
site side  a  white  face  stared  at  him,  and  with  one 
hand  resting  on  the  heavily  laden  sledge,  and 
his  revolver  at  a  level  with  his  waist,  MacVeigh 
stared  back  in  speechless  astonishment. 

For  the  great,  dark,  frightened  eyes  that 
looked  across  at  him,  and  the  white,  staring  face 
he  recognized  as  the  eyes  and  the  face  of  a 
woman.  For  a  moment  he  was  unable  to  move 
or  speak,  and  the  woman  raised  her  hands  and 
pushed  back  her  fur  hood  so  that  he  saw  her 
hair  shimmering  in  the  starlight.  She  was  a 
white  woman.  Suddenly  he  saw  something  in 
her  face  that  struck  him  with  a  chill,  and  he 
looked  down  at  the  thing  under  his  hand.  It 
was  a  long,  rough  box.  He  drew  back  .a 
step. 

"Good  God!"  he  said.     "Are  you  alone?" 

She  bowed  her  head,  and  he  heard  her  voice 
in  a  half  sob. 

"Yes— alone." 

He  passed  quickly  around  to  her  side.  ' '  I  am 
Sergeant  MacVeigh,  of  the  Royal  Mounted,"  he 
said,  gently.  "Tell  me,  where  are  you  going, 
and  how  does  it  happen  that  you  are  out  here 
in  the  Barren — alone." 

is 


ISOBEL 

Her  hood  had  fallen  upon  her  shoulder,  and 
she  lifted  her  face  full  to  MacVeigh.  The  stars 
shone  in  her  eyes.  They  were  wonderful  eyes, 
and  now  they  were  filled  with  pain.  And  it 
was  a  wonderful  face  to  MacVeigh,  who  had 
not  seen  a  white  woman's  face  for  nearly  a  year. 
She  was  young,  so  young  that  in  the  pale  glow 
of  the  night  she  looked  almost  like  a  girl,  and  in 
her  eyes  and  mouth  and  the  upturn  of  her  chin 
there  was  something  so  like  that  other  face  of 
which  he  had  dreamed  that  he  reached  out  and 
took  her  two  hesitating  hands  in  his  own,  and 
asked  again : 

"Where  are  you  going,  and  why  are  you  out 
here — alone?" 

"I  am  going — down  there,"  she  said,  turning 
her  head  toward  the  timber-line.  "I  am  going 
— with  him — my  husband — 

Her  voice  choked  her,  and,  drawing  her  hands 
suddenly  from  him,  she  went  to  the  sledge  and 
stood  facing  him.  For  a  moment  there  was  a 
glow  of  defiance  in  her  eyes,  as  though  she 
feared  him  and  was  ready  to  fight  for  herself 
and  her  dead.  The  dogs  slunk  in  at  her  feet, 
and  MacVeigh  saw  the  gleam  of  their  naked 
fangs  in  the  starlight. 

"He  died  three  days  ago,"  she  finished, 
16 


BILLY    MEETS    THE    WOMAN 

quietly,  "and  I  am  taking  him  back  to  my 
people,  down  on  the  Little  Seul." 

"It  is  two  hundred  miles,"  said  MacVeigh, 
looking  at  her  as  if  she  were  mad.  "You  will 
die." 

"I  have  traveled  two  days,"  replied  the 
woman.  "I  am  going  on." 

"Two  days — across  the  Barren!" 

MacVeigh  looked  at  the  box,  grim  and  terrible 
in  the  ghostly  radiance  that  fell  upon  it.  Then 
he  looked  at  the  woman.  She  had  bowed  her 
head  upon  her  breast,  and  her  shining  hair  fell 
loose  and  disheveled.  He  saw  the  pathetic 
droop  of  her  tired  shoulders,  and  knew  that  she 
was  crying.  In  that  moment  a  thrilling  warmth 
flooded  every  fiber  of  his  body,  and  the  glory  of 
this  that  had  come  to  him  from  out  of  the  Barren 
held  him  mute.  To  him  woman  was  all  that 
was  glorious  and  good.  The  pitiless  loneliness 
of  his  life  had  placed  them  next  to  angels  in  his 
code  of  things,  and  before  him  now  he  saw  all 
that  he  had  ever  dreamed  of  in  the  love  and 
loyalty  of  womanhood  and  of  wifehood. 

The  bowed  little  figure  before  him  was  facing 
death  for  the  man  she  had  loved,  and  who  was 
dead.  In  a  way  he  knew  that  she  was  mad. 
And  yet  her  madness  was  the  madness  of  a 

17 


ISOBEL 

devotion  that  was  beyond  fear,  of  a  faithfulness 
that  made  no  measure  of  storm  and  cold  and 
starvation;  and  he  was  filled  with  a  desire  to  go 
up  to  her  as  she  stood  crumpled  and  exhausted 
against  the  box,  to  take  her  close  in  his  arms 
and  tell  her  that  of  such  a  love  he  had  built  for 
himself  the  visions  which  had  kept  him  alive  in 
his  loneliness.  She  looked  pathetically  like  a 
child. 

"Come,  little  girl,"  he  said.  "We'll  go  on. 
I'll  see  you  safely  on  your  way  to  the  Little 
Seul.  You  mustn't  go  alone.  You'd  never 
reach  your  people  alive.  My  God,  if  I  were 
he—" 

He  stopped  at  the  frightened  look  in  the  white 
face  she  lifted  to  him. 

"What?"  she  asked. 

' '  Nothing — only  it's  hard  for  a  man  to  die  and 
lose  a  woman  like  you,"  said  MacVeigh. 
"There — let  me  lift  you  up  on  the  box." 

"The  dogs  cannot  pull  the  load,"  she  ob- 
jected. "I  have  helped  them — " 

"If  they  can't,  I  can,"  he  laughed,  softly;  and 
with  a  quick  movement  he  picked  her  up  and 
seated  her  on  the  sledge.  He  stripped  off  his 
pack  and  placed  it  behind  her,  and  then  he  gave 
her  his  rifle.  The  woman  looked  straight  at 

18 


BILLY   MEETS    THE   WOMAN 

him  with  a  tense,  white  face  as  she  placed  the 
weapon  across  her  lap. 

"You  can  shoot  me  if  I  don't  do  my  duty," 
said  MacVeigh.  He  tried  to  hide  the  happiness 
that  came  to  him  in  this  companionship  of 
woman,  but  it  trembled  in  his  voice.  He 
stopped  suddenly,  listening. 

"What  was  that?" 

"I  heard  nothing,"  said  the  woman.  Her 
face  was  deadly  white.  Her  eyes  had  grown 
black. 

MacVeigh  turned,  with  a  word  to  the  dogs. 
He  picked  up  the  end  of  the  babiche  rope  with 
which  the  woman  had  assisted  them  to  drag 
their  load,  and  set  off  across  the  Barren.  The 
presence  of  the  dead  had  always  been  oppressive 
to  him,  but  to-night  it  was  otherwise.  His 
fatigue  of  the  day  was  gone,  and  in  spite  of  the 
thing  he  was  helping  to  drag  behind  him  he  was 
filled  with  a  strange  elation.  He  was  in  the 
presence  of  a  woman.  Now  and  then  he 
turned  his  head  to  look  at  her.  He  could  feel 
her  behind  him,  and  the  sound  of  her  low  voice 
when  she  spoke  to  the  dogs  was  like  music  to 
him.  He  wanted  to  burst  forth  in  the  wild  song 
with  which  he  and  Pelliter  had  kept  up  their 
courage  in  the  little  cabin,  but  he  throttled  his 

19 


ISOBEL 

desire  and  whistled  instead.  He  wondered  how 
the  woman  and  the  dogs  had  dragged  the 
sledge.  It  sank  deep  in  the  soft  drift-snow, 
and  taxed  his  strength.  Now  and  then  he 
paused  to  rest,  and  at  last  the  woman  jumped 
from  the  sledge  and  came  to  his  side. 

"I  am  going  to  walk,"  she  said.  "The  load 
is  too  heavy." 

"The  snow  is  soft,"  replied  MacVeigh. 
"Come." 

He  held  out  his  hand  to  her;  and,  with  the 
same  strange,  white  look  in  her  face,  the  woman 
gave  him  her  own.  She  glanced  back  uneasily 
toward  the  box,  and  MacVeigh  understood.  He 
pressed  her  fingers  a  little  tighter  and  drew  her 
nearer  to  him.  Hand  in  hand,  they  resumed 
their  way  across  the  Barren.  MacVeigh  said 
nothing,  but  his  blood  was  running  like  fire 
through  his  body.  The  little  hand  he  held 
trembled  and  started  uneasily.  Once  or  twice 
it  tried  to  draw  itself  away,  and  he  held  it 
closer.  After  that  it  remained  submissively  in 
his  own,  warm  and  thrilling.  Looking  down,  he 
could  see  the  profile  of  the  woman's  face. 

A  long,  shining  tress  of  her  hair  had  freed 
itself  from  under  her  hood,  and  the  light  wind 
lifted  it  so  that  it  fell  across  his  arm.  Like  a 

20 


BILLY    MEETS    THE    WOMAN 

thief  he  raised  it  to  his  lips,  while  the  woman 
looked  straight  ahead  to  where  the  timber-line 
began  to  show  in  a  thin,  black  streak.  His 
cheeks  burned,  half  with  shame,  half  with 
tumultuous  joy.  Then-  he  straightened  his 
shoulders  and  shook  the  floating  tress  from  his 
arm. 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  later  they  came 
to  the  first  of  the  timber.  He  still  held  her 
hand.  He  was  still  holding  it,  with  the  brilliant 
starlight  falling  upon  them,  when  his  chin  shot 
suddenly  into  the  air  again,  alert  and  fighting, 
and  he  cried,  softly : 
/'What  was  that?" 

"Nothing,"  said  the  woman.  "I  heard 
nothing — unless  it  was  the  wind  in  the  trees." 

She  drew  away  from  him.  The  dogs  whined 
and  slunk  close  to  the  box.  Across  the  Barren 
came  a  low,  wailing  wind. 

"The  storm  is  coming  back,"  said  MacVeigh. 
"It  must  have  been  the  wind  that  I  heard." 


Ill 

"IN   HONOR  OP  THE   LIVING" 

FOR  a  few  moments  after  uttering  those 
words  Billy  stood  silent  listening  for  a 
sound  that  was  not  the  low  moaning  of  the 
wind  far  out  on  the  Barren.  He  was  sure  that 
he  had  heard  it — something  very  near,  almost 
at  his  feet,  and  yet  it  was  a  sound  which  he 
could  not  place  or  understand.  He  looked  at 
the  woman.  She  was  gazing  steadily  at  him. 

"I  hear  it  now,"  she  said.  "It  is  the  wind. 
It  has  frightened  me.  It  makes  such  terrible 
sounds  at  times — out  on  the  Barren.  A  little 
while  ago — I  thought — I  heard — a  child  cry- 
ing-" 

Billy  saw  her  clutch  a  hand  at  her  throat,  and 
there  were  both  terror  and  grief  in  the  eyes 
that  never  for  an  instant  left  his  face.  He  un- 
derstood. She  was  almost  ready  to  give  way 
under  the  terrible  strain  of  the  Barren.  He 
smiled  at  her,  and  spoke  in  a  voice  that  he 
might  have  used  to  a  little  child. 

22 


IN   HONOR   OF   THE   LIVING 

"You  are  tired,  little  girl?" 

"Yes — yes — I  am  tired — " 

"And  hungry  and  cold?" 

"Yes." 

"Then  we  will  camp  in  the  timber." 

They  went  on  until  they  came  to  a  growth  of 
spruce  so  dense  that  it  formed  a  shelter  from 
both  snow  and  wind,  with  a  thick  carpet  of 
brown  needles  under  foot.  They  were  shut  out 
from  the  stars,  and  in  the  darkness  MacVeigh 
began  to  whistle  cheerfully.  He  unstrapped 
his  pack  and  spread  out  one  of  his  blankets 
close  to  the  box  and  wrapped  the  other  about 
the  woman's  shoulders. 

"You  sit  here  while  I  make  a  fire,"  he  said. 

He  piled  up  dry  needles  over  a  precious  bit  of 
his  birchbark  and  struck  a  flame.  In  the  glow- 
ing light  he  found  other  fuel,  and  added  to  the 
fire  until  the  crackling  blaze  leaped  as  high  as 
his  head.  The  woman's  face  was  hidden,  and 
she  looked  as  though  she  had  fallen  asleep  in  the 
warmth  of  the  fire.  For  half  an  hour  Mac- 
Veigh dragged  in  fuel  until  he  had  a  great  pile 
of  it  in  readiness. 

Then  he  forked  out  a  deep  bed  of  burning 
coals  and  soon  the  odor  of  coffee  and  frying 
bacon  aroused  his  companion.  She  raised  her 

23 


ISOBEL 

head  and  threw  back  the  blanket  with  which 
he  had  covered  her  shoulders.  It  was  warm 
where  she  sat,  and  she  took  off  her  hood  while 
he  smiled  at  her  companionably  from  over  the 
fire.  Her  reddish-brown  hair  tumbled  about 
her  shoulders,  rippling  and  glistening  in  the  fire 
glow,  and  for  a  few  moments  she  sat  with  it 
falling  loosely  about  her,  with  her  eyes  upon 
MacVeigh.  Then  she  gathered  it  between  her 
fingers,  and  MacVeigh  watched  her  while  she 
divided  it  into  shining  strands  and  pleated  it 
into  a  big  braid. 

"Supper  is  ready,"  he  said.  "Will  you  eat 
it  there?" 

She  nodded,  and  for  the  first  time  she  smiled 
at  him.  He  brought  bacon  and  bread  and  coffee 
and  other  things  from  his  pack  and  placed 
them  on  a  folded  blanket  between  them.  He 
sat  opposite  her,  cross-legged.  For  the  first 
time  he  noticed  that  her  eyes  were  blue  and  that 
there  was  a  flush  in  her  cheeks.  The  flush 
deepened  as  he  looked  at  her,  and  she  smiled 
at  him  again. 

The  smile,  the  momentary  drooping  of  her 
eyes,  set  his  heart  leaping,  and  for  a  little 
while  he  was  unconscious  of  taste  in  the  food  he 
swallowed.  He  told  her  of  his  post  away  up 

24 


IN   HONOR   OF   THE   LIVING 

at  Point  Fullerton,  and  of  Pelliter,  who  was 
dying  of  loneliness. 

"It's  been  a  long  time  since  I've  seen  a 
woman  like  you,"  he  confided.  "And  it  seems 
like  heaven.  You  don't  know  how  lonely  I 
am!"  His  voice  trembled.  "I  wish  that 
Pelliter  could  see  you — just  for  a  moment,"  he 
added.  "It  would  make  him  live  again." 

Something  in  the  soft  glow  of  her  eyes  urged 
other  words  to  his  lips. 

"Mebbe  you  don't  know  what  it  means  not 
to  see  a  white  woman  in — in — all  this  time,"  he 
went  on.  "You  won't  think  that  I've  gone 
mad,  will  you,  or  that  I'm  saying  or  doing  any- 
thing that's  wrong?  I'm  trying  to  hold  myself 
back,  but  I  feel  like  shouting,  I'm  that  glad. 
If  Pelliter  could  see  you —  He  reached  sud- 
denly in  his  pocket  and  drew  out  the  precious 
packet  of  letters.  "He's  got  a  girl  down  south 
—just  like  you,"  he  said.  ' ' These  are  from  her. 
If  I  get  'em  up  in  time  they'll  bring  him  round. 
It's  not  medicine  he  wants.  It's  woman — just 
a  sight  of  her,  and  sound  of  her,  and  a  touch  of 
her  hand." 

She  reached  across  and  took  the  letters.  In 
the  firelight  he  saw  that  her  hand  was  trembling. 

"Are  they — married?"  she  asked,  softly. 
25 


ISOBEL 

"No,  but  they're  going  to  be,"  he  cried, 
triumphantly.  ' '  She's  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  the  world,  next  to — 

He  paused,  and  she  finished  for  him. 

"Next  to  one  other  girl — who  is  yours." 

"No,  I  wasn't  going  to  say  that.  You 
won't  think  I  mean  wrong,  will  you,  if  I  tell 
you?  I  was  going  to  say  next  to — you.  For 
you've  come  out  of  the  blizzard — like  an  angel 
to  give  me  new  hope.  I  was  sort  of  broke 
when  you  came.  If  you  disappeared  now  and 
I  never  saw  you  again  I'd  go  back  and  fight 
the  rest  of  my  time  out,  an'  dream  of  pleasant 
things.  Gawd!  Do  you  know  a  man  has  to 
be  put  up  here  before  he  knows  that  life  isn't 
the  sun  an'  the  moon  an'  the  stars  an'  the  air 
we  breathe.  It's  woman — just  woman." 

He  was  returning  the  letters  to  his  pocket. 
The  woman's  voice  was  clear  and  gentle.  To 
Billy  it  rose  like  sweetest  music  above  the 
crackling  of  the  fire  and  the  murmuring  of  the 
wind  in  the  spruce  tops. 

"Men  like  you — ought  to  have  a  woman  to 
care  for,"  she  said.  "He  was  like  that." 

"You  mean — "  His  eyes  sought  the  long, 
dark  box. 

"Yes— he  was  like  that." 
26 


IN    HONOR   OF   THE    LIVING 

"I  know  how  you  feel,"  he  said;  and  for  a 
moment  he  did  not  look  at  her.  "I've  gone 
through — a  lot  of  it.  Father  an'  mother  and  a 
sister.  Mother  was  the  last,  and  I  wasn't  much 
more  than  a  kid — eighteen,  I  guess — but  it  don't 
seem  much  more  than  yesterday.  When  you 
come  up  here  and  you  don't  see  the  sun  for 
months  nor  a  white  face  for  a  year  or  more  it 
brings  up  all  those  things  pretty  much  as 
though  they  happened  only  a  little  while  ago." 

"All  of  them  are — dead?"  she  asked. 

"All  but  one.  She  wrote  to  me  for  a  long 
time,  and  I  thought  she'd  keep  her  word. 
Pelly — that's  Pelliter — thinks  we've  just  had  a 
misunderstanding,  and  that  she'll  write  again. 
I  haven't  told  him  that  she  turned  me  down  to 
marry  another  fellow.  I  didn't  want  to  make 
him  think  any  unpleasant  things  about  his  own 
girl.  You're  apt  to  do  that  when  you're  almost 
dying  of  loneliness." 

The  woman's  eyes  were  shining.  She  leaned 
a  little  toward  him. 

"You  should  be  glad,"  she  said.  "If  she 
turned  you  down  she  wouldn't  have  been 
worthy  of  you — afterward.  She  wasn't  a  true 
woman.  If  she  had  been,  her  love  wouldn't 
have  grown  cold  because  you  were  away.  It 

3  27 


ISOBEL 

mustn't  spoil  your  faith — because  that  is — 
beautiful." 

He  had  put  a  hand  into  his  pocket  again,  and 
drew  out  now  a  thin  package  wrapped  in  buck- 
skin. His  face  was  like  a  boy's. 

"I  might  have — if  I  hadn't  met  you''  he 
said.  "I'd  like  to  let  you  know — some  way — 
what  you've  done  for  me.  You  and  this." 

He  had  unfolded  the  buckskin,  and  gave  it  to 
her.  In  it  were  the  big  blue  petals  and  dried 
stem  of  a  blue  flower. 

"A  blue  flower!"  she  said. 

"Yes.  You  know  what  it  means.  The 
Indians  call  it  i-o-waka,  or  something  like  that, 
because  they  believe  that  it  is  the  flower  spirit 
of  the  purest  and  most  beautiful  thing  in  the 
world.  I  have  called  it  woman." 

He  laughed,  and  there  was  a  joyous  sort  of 
note  in  the  laugh. 

1  "You  may  think  me  a  little  mad,"  he  said, 
"but  do  you  care  if  I  tell  you  about  that  blue 
flower?" 

The  woman  nodded.  There  was  a  little 
quiver  at  her  throat  which  Billy  did  not  see. 

"I  was  away  up  on  the  Great  Bear,"  he  said, 
"and  for  ten  days  and  ten  nights  I  was  in  camp 
— alone — laid  up  with  a  sprained  ankle.  It  was 

28 


IN   HONOR   OF   THE   LIVING 

a  wild  and  gloomy  place,  shut  in  by  barren 
ridge  mountains,  with  stunted  black  spruce  all 
about,  and  those  spruce  were  haunted  by  owls 
that  made  my  blood  run  cold  nights.  The 
second  day  I  found  company.  It  was  a  blue 
flower.  It  grew  close  to  my  tent,  as  high  as  my 
knee,  and  during  the  day  I  used  to  spread  out 
my  blanket  close  to  it  and  lie  there  and  smoke. 
And  the  blue  flower  would  wave  on  its  slender 
stem,  an*  bob  at  me,  an'  talk  in  sign  language 
that  I  imagined  I  understood.  Sometimes  it 
was  so  funny  and  vivacious  that  I  laughed,  and 
then  it  seemed  to  be  inviting  me  to  a  dance. 
And  at  other  times  it  was  just  beautiful  and 
still,  and  seemed  listening  to  what  the  forest 
was  saying — and  once  or  twice,  I  thought,  it 
might  be  praying.  Loneliness  makes  a  fellow 
foolish,  you  know.  With  the  going  of  the  sun 
my  blue  flower  would  always  fold  its  petals  and 
go  to  sleep,  like  a  little  child  tired  out  by  the 
day's  play,  and  after  that  I  would  feel  terribly 
lonely.  But  it  was  always  awake  again  when 
I  rolled  out  in  the  morning.  At  last  the  time 
came  when  I  was  well  enough  to  leave.  On  the 
ninth  night  I  watched  my  blue  flower  go  to 
sleep  for  the  last  time.  Then  I  packed.  The 
sun  was  up  when  I  went  away  the  next  morning, 

29 


ISOBEL 

and  from  a  little  distance  I  turned  and  looked 
back.  I  suppose  I  was  foolish,  and  weak  for 
a  man,  but  I  felt  like  crying.  Blue  flower  had 
taught  me  many  things  I  had  not  known  before. 
It  had  made  me  think.  And  when  I  looked 
back  it  was  in  a  pool  of  sunlight,  and  it  was 
waving  at  me!  It  seemed  to  me  that  it  was 
calling  —  calling  me  back  —  and  I  ran  to  it 
and  picked  it  from  the  stem,  and  it  has  been 
with  me  ever  since  that  hour.  It  has  been  my 
Bible  an'  my  comrade,  an'  I've  known  it  was 
the  spirit  of  the  purest  and  the  most  beautiful 
thing  in  the  world — woman.  I — "  His  voice 
broke  a  little.  "I — I  may  be  foolish,  but  I'd 
like  to  have  you  take  it,  an'  keep  it — always — 
for  me." 

He  could  see  now  the  quiver  of  her  lips  as  she 
looked  across  at  him. 

"Yes,  I  will  take  it,"  she  said.  "I  will  take 
it  and  keep  it — always." 

"I've  been  keeping  it  for  a  woman — some- 
where," he  said.  "Foolish  idea,  wasn't  it? 
And  I've  been  telling  you  all  this,  when  I  want 
to  hear  what  happened  back  there,  and  what 
you  are  going  to  do  when  you  reach  your 
people.  Do  you  mind — telling  me?" 

"He  died — that's  all,"  she  replied,  fighting  to 
30 


IN   HONOR   OF   THE    LIVING 

speak  calmly.  ' '  I  promised  to  take  him  back — 
to  my  people.  And  when  I  get  there — I  don't 
know — what  I  shall — do — ' 

She  caught  her  breath.  A  low  sob  broke 
from  her  lips. 

"You  don't  know — what  you  will  do — ' 

Billy's  voice  sounded  strange  even  to  him- 
self. He  rose  to  his  feet  and  looked  down  into 
her  upturned  face,  his  hands  clenched,  his  body 
trembling  with  the  fight  he  was  making. 
Words  came  to  his  lips  and  were  forced  back 
again — words  which  almost  won  in  their  struggle 
to  tell  her  again  that  she  had  come  to  him  from 
out  of  the  Barren  like  an  angel,  that  within  the 
short  space  since  their  meeting  he  had  lived  a 
lifetime,  and  that  he  loved  her  as  no  man  had 
ever  loved  a  woman  before.  Her  blue  eyes 
looked  at  him  questioningly  as  he  stood  above 
her. 

And  then  he  saw  the  thing  which  for  a 
moment  he  had  forgotten — the  long,  rough  box 
at  the  woman's  back.  His  fingers  dug  deeper 
into  his  palms,  and  with  a  gasping  breath  he 
turned  away.  A  hundred  paces  back  in  the 
spruce  he  had  found  a  bare  rock  with  a  red 
bakneesh  vine  growing  over  it.  With  his  knife 
he  cut  off  an  armful,  and  when  he  returned 

31 


ISOBEL 

with  it  into  the  light  of  the  fire  the  bakneesh 
glowed  like  a  mass  of  crimson  flowers.  The 
woman  had  risen  to  her  feet,  and  looked  at  him 
speechlessly  as  he  scattered  the  vine  over  the 
box.  He  turned  to  her  and  said,  softly: 

"In  honor  of  the  dead!" 

The  color  had  faded  from  her  face,  but  her 
eyes  shone  like  stars.  Billy  advanced  toward 
her  with  his  hands  reaching  out.  But  sud- 
denly he  stopped  and  stood  listening.  After 
a  moment  he  turned  and  asked  again: 

"What  was  that?" 

"I  heard  the  dogs — and  the  wind,"  she 
replied. 

"It's  something  cracking  in  my  head,  I 
guess,"  said  MacVeigh.  "It  sounded  like — " 
He  passed  a  hand  over  his  forehead  and  looked 
at  the  dogs  huddled  in  deep  sleep  beside  the 
sledge.  The  woman  did  not  see  the  shiver  that 
passed  through  him.  He  laughed  cheerfully, 
and  seized  his  ax. 

' '  Now  for  the  camp, ' '  he  announced.  ' '  We're 
going  to  get  the  storm  within  an  hour." 

On  the  box  the  woman  carried  a  small  tent, 
and  he  pitched  it  close  to  the  fire,  filling  the 
interior  two  feet  deep  with  cedar  and  balsam 
boughs.  His  own  silk  service  tent  he  put  back 

32 


IN   HONOR   OF   THE   LIVING 

in  the  deeper  shadows  of  the  spruce.  When  he 
had  finished  he  looked  questioningly  at  the 
woman  and  then  at  the  box. 

"If  there  is  room — I  would  like  it  in  there — 
with  me,"  she  said,  and  while  she  stood  with  her 
face  to  the  fire  he  dragged  the  box  into  the 
tent.  Then  he  piled  fresh  fuel  upon  the  fire  and 
came  to  bid  her  good  night.  Her  face  was  pale 
and  haggard  now,  but  she  smiled  at  him,  and 
to  MacVeigh  she  was  the  most  beautiful  thing 
in  the  world.  Within  himself  he  felt  that  he 
had  known  her  for  years  and  years,  and  he  took 
her  hands  and  looked  down  into  her  blue  eyes 
and  said,  almost  in  a  whisper : 

"Will  you  forgive  me  if  I'm  doing  wrong? 
You  don't  know  how  lonesome  I've  been,  and 
how  lonesome  I  am,  and  what  it  means  to  me 
to  look  once  more  into  a  woman's  face.  I 
don't  want  to  hurt  you,  and  I'd — I'd" — his 
voice  broke  a  little — "I'd  give  him  back  life 
if  I  could,  just  because  I've  seen  you  and 
know  you  and — and  love  you." 

She  started  and  drew  a  quick,  sharp  breath 
that  came  almost  in  a  low  cry. 

"Forgive  me,  little  girl,"  he  went  on.  "I 
may  be  a  little  mad.  I  guess  I  am.  But  I'd 
die  for  you,  and  I'm  going  to  see  you  safely  down 

33 


ISOBEL 

to  your  people — and — and — I  wonder — I  won- 
der— if  you'd  kiss  me  good  night — " 

Her  eyes  never  left  his  face.  They  were 
dazzlingly  blue  in  the  firelight.  Slowly  she  drew 
her  hands  away  from  him,  still  looking  straight 
into  his  eyes,  and  then  she  placed  them  against 
each  of  his  arms  and  slowly  lifted  her  face  to 
him.  Reverently  he  bent  and  kissed  her. 

"God  bless  you!"  he  whispered. 

For  hours  after  that  he  sat  beside  the  fire. 
The  wind  came  up  stronger  across  the  Barren; 
the  storm  broke  fresh  from  the  north,  the  spruce 
and  the  balsam  wailed  over  his  head,  and  he 
could  hear  the  moaning  sweep  of  the  blizzard 
out  in  the  open  spaces.  But  the  sounds  came 
to  him  now  like  a  new  kind  of  music,  and  his 
heart  throbbed  and  his  soul  was  warm  with 
joy  as  he  looked  at  the  little  tent  wherein  there 
lay  sleeping  the  woman  whom  he  loved. 

He  still  felt  the  warmth  of  her  lips,  he  saw 
again  and  again  the  blue  softness  that  had  come 
for  an  instant  into  her  eyes,  and  he  thanked 
God  for  the  wonderful  happiness  that  had  come 
to  him.  For  the  sweetness  of  the  woman's 
lips  and  the  greater  sweetness  of  her  blue  eyes 
told  him  what  life  held  for  him  now.  A  day's 

34 


IN    HONOR   OF    THE    LIVING 

journey  to  the  south  was  an  Indian  camp.  He 
would  take  her  there,  and  would  hire  runners 
to  carry  up  Pelliter's  medicines  and  his  letters. 
Then  he  would  go  on — with  the  woman — and  he 
laughed  softly  and  joyously  at  the  glorious 
news  which  he  would  take  back  to  Pelliter  a 
little  later.  For  the  kiss  burned  on  his  lips,  the 
blue  eyes  smiled  at  him  still  from  out  of  the  fire- 
lit  gloom,  and  he  knew  nothing  but  hope. 

It  was  late,  almost  midnight,  when  he  went 
to  bed.  With  the  storm  wailing  and  twisting 
more  fiercely  about  him,  he  fell  asleep.  And  it 
was  late  when  he  awoke.  The  forest  was 
filled  with  a  moaning  sound.  The  fire  was  low. 
Beyond  it  the  flap  of  the  woman's  tent  was  still 
down,  and  he  put  on  fresh  fuel  quietly,  so  that 
he  would  not  awaken  her.  He  looked  at  his 
watch  and  found  that  he  had  been  sleeping  for 
nearly  seven  hours.  Then  he  returned  to  his 
tent  to  get  the  things  for  breakfast.  Half  a 
dozen  paces  from  the  door  flap  he  stopped  in 
sudden  astonishment. 

Hanging  to  his  tent  in  the  form  of  a  great 
wreath  was  the  red  bakneesh  which  he  had  cut 
the  night  before,  and  over  it,  scrawled  in  char- 
coal on  the  silk,  there  stared  at  him  the  crudely 
written  words : 

35 


ISOBEL 

"In  honor  of  the  living." 

With  a  low  cry  he  sprang  back  toward  the 
other  tent,  and  then,  as  sudden  as  his  movement, 
there  flashed  upon  him  the  significance  of  the 
bakneesh  wreath.  The  woman  was  saying  to 
him  what  she  had  not  spoken  in  words.  She 
had  come  out  in  the  night  while  he  was  asleep 
and  had  hung  the  wreath  where  he  would  see  it 
in  the  morning.  The  blood  rushed  warm  and 
joyous  through  his  body,  and  with  something 
which  was  not  a  laugh,  but  which  was  an 
exultant  breath  from  the  soul  itself,  he  straight- 
ened himself,  and  his  hand  fell  in  its  old  trick 
to  his  revolver  holster.  It  was  empty. 

He  dragged  out  his  blankets,  but  the  weapon 
was  not  between  them.  He  looked  into  the 
corner  where  he  had  placed  his  rifle.  That,  too, 
was  gone.  His  face  grew  tense  and  white  as 
he  walked  slowly  beyond  the  fire  to  the  woman's 
tent.  With  his  ear  at  the  flap  he  listened. 
There  was  no  sound  within — no  sound  of  move- 
ment, of  life,  of  a  sleeper's  breath;  and  like  one 
who  feared  to  reveal  a  terrible  picture  he  drew 
back  the  flap.  The  balsam  bed  which  he  had 
made  for  the  woman  was  empty,  and  across  it 
had  been  drawn  the  big  rough  box.  He  stepped 
inside.  The  box  was  open — and  empty,  except 

36 


IN   HONOR   OF   THE   LIVING 

for  a  mass  of  worn  and  hard-packed  balsam 
boughs  in  the  bottom.  In  another  instant  the 
truth  burst  in  all  its  force  upon  MacVeigh. 
The  box  had  held  life,  and  the  woman — 

Something  on  the  side  of  the  box  caught  his 
eyes.  It  was  a  folded  bit  of  paper,  pinned  where 
he  must  see  it.  He  tore  it  off  and  staggered 
with  it  back  into  the  light  of  day.  A  low,  hard 
cry  came  from  his  lips  as  he  read  what  the 
woman  had  written  to  him : 

"May  God  bless  you  for  being  good  to  me.  In 
the  storm  we  have  gone — my  husband  and  I. 
Word  came  to  us  that  you  were  on  our  trail,  and 
we  saw  your  fire  out  on  the  Barren.  My  husband 
made  the  box  for  me  to  keep  me  from  cold  and 
storm.  When  we  saw  you  we  changed  places,  and 
so  you  met  me  with  my  dead.  He  could  have 
killed  you — a  dozen  times,  but  you  were  good 
to  me,  and  so  you  live.  Some  day  may  God  give 
you  a  good  woman  who  will  love  you  as  I  love  him. 
He  killed  a  man,  but  killing  is  not  always  murder. 
We  have  taken  your  weapons,  and  the  storm  will 
cover  our  trail.  But  you  would  not  follow.  I  know 
that.  For  you  know  what  it  means  to  love  a  woman, 
and  so  you  know  what  life  means  to  a  woman  when 
she  loves  a  man.  MRS.  ISOBEL  DEANE." 

37 


IV 

THE   MAN-HUNTERS 

T  IKE  one  dazed  by  a  blow  Billy  read  once 
1— '  more  the  words  which  Isobel  Deane  had 
left  for  him.  He  made  no  sound  after  that  first 
cry  that  had  broken  from  his  lips,  but  stood 
looking  into  the  crackling  flames  of  the  fire  until 
a  sudden  lash  of  the  wind  whipped  the  note  from 
between  his  fingers  and  sent  it  scurrying  away 
in  a  white  volley  of  fine  snow.  The  loss  of  the 
note  awoke  him  to  action.  He  started  to  pursue 
the  bit  of  paper,  then  stopped  and  laughed. 
It  was  a  short,  mirthless  laugh,  the  kind  of  a 
laugh  with  which  a  strong  man  covers  pain. 
He  returned  to  the  tent  again  and  looked  in. 
He  flung  back  the  tent  flaps  so  that  the  light 
could  enter  and  he  could  see  into  the  box.  A 
few  hours  before  that  box  had  hidden  Scottie 
Deane,  the  murderer.  And  she  was  his  wife! 
He  turned  back  to  the  fire,  and  he  saw  again 
the  red  bakneesh  hanging  over  his  tent  flap, 

38 


THE   MAN-HUNTERS 

and  the  words  she  had  scrawled  with  the  end  of 
a  charred  stick,  "In  honor  of  the  living." 
That  meant  him.  Something  thick  and  un- 
comfortable rose  in  his  throat,  and  a  blur  that 
was  not  caused  by  snow  or  wind  filled  his  eyes. 
She  had  made  a  magnificent  fight.  And  she 
had  won.  And  it  suddenly  occurred  to  him 
that  what  she  had  said  in  the  note  was  true, 
and  that  Scottie  Deane  could  easily  have  killed 
him.  The  next  moment  he  wondered  why  he 
had  not  done  that.  Deane  had  taken  a  big 
chance  in  allowing  him  to  live.  They  had  only 
a  few  hours'  start  of  him,  and  their  trail  could 
not  be  entirely  obliterated  by  the  storm. 
Deane  would  be  hampered  in  his  flight  by  the 
presence  of  his  wife.  He  could  still  follow  and 
overtake  them.  They  had  taken  his  weapons, 
but  this  would  not  be  the  first  time  that  he  had 
gone  after  his  man  without  weapons. 

Swiftly  the  reaction  worked  in  him.  He  ran 
beyond  the  fire,  and  circled  quickly  until  he 
came  upon  the  trail  of  the  outgoing  sledge.  It 
was  still  quite  distinct.  Deeper  in  the  forest  it 
could  be  easily  followed.  Something  fluttered 
at  his  feet.  It  was  Isobel  Deane's  note.  He 
picked  it  up,  and  again  his  eyes  fell  upon  those 
last  words  that  she  had  written :  But  you  would 

39 


ISOBEL 

not  follow.  I  know  that.  For  you  know  what 
it  means  to  love  a  woman,  and  so  you  know 
what  life  means  to  a  woman  when  she  loves  a 
man.  That  was  why  Scottie  Deane  had  not 
killed  him.  It  was  because  of  the  woman. 
And  she  had  faith  in  him !  This  time  he  fold- 
ed the  note  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket,  where 
the  blue  flower  had  been.  Then  he  went  slow- 
ly back  to  the  fire. 

"I  told  you  I'd  give  him  back  his  life — if  I 
could,"  he  said.  "And  I  guess  I'm  going  to 
keep  my  word."  He  fell  into  his  old  habit  of 
talking  to  himself — a  habit  that  comes  easily  to 
one  in  the  big  open  spaces — and  he  laughed  as 
he  stood  beside  the  fire  and  loaded  his  pipe. 
"If  it  wasn't  for  her!"  he  added,  thinking  of 
Scottie  Deane.  "Gawd — if  it  wasn't  for  her!" 

He  finished  loading  his  pipe,  and  lighted  it, 
staring  off  into  the  thicker  spruce  forest  into 
which  Scottie  and  his  wife  had  fled.  The 
entire  force  was  on  the  lookout  for  Scottie 
Deane.  For  more  than  a  year  he  had  been  as 
elusive  as  the  little  white  ermine  of  the  woods. 
He  had  outwitted  the  best  men  in  the  service, 
and  his  name  was  known  to  every  man  of  the 
Royal  Mounted  from  Calgary  to  Herschel 
Island.  There  was  a  price  on  his  head,  and 
40 


THE    MAN-HUNTERS 

fame  for  the  man  who  captured  him.  Those 
who  dreamed  of  promotions  also  dreamed  of 
Scottie  Deane;  and  as  Billy  thought  of  these 
things  something  that  was  not  the  man-hunting 
instinct  rose  in  him  and  his  blood  warmed  with 
a  strange  feeling  of  brotherhood.  Scottie  Deane 
was  more  than  an  outlaw  to  him  now,  more  than 
a  mere  man.  Hunted  like  a  rat,  chased  from 
place  to  place,  he  must  be  more  than  those 
things  for  a  woman  like  Isobel  Deane  still  to 
cling  to.  He  recalled  the  gentleness  of  her 
voice,  the  sweetness  of  her  face,  the  tenderness 
of  her  blue  eyes,  and  for  the  first  time  the 
thought  came  to  him  that  such  a  woman  could 
not  love  a  man  who  was  wholly  bad.  And  she 
did  love  him.  A  twinge  of  pain  came  with  that 
truth,  and  yet  with  it  a  thrill  of  pleasure.  Her 
loyalty  was  a  triumph — even  for  him.  She  had 
come  to  him  like  an  angel  out  of  the  storm, 
and  she  had  gone  from  him  like  an  angel.  He 
was  glad.  A  living,  breathing  reality  had  taken 
the  place  of  the  dream  vision  in  his  heart,  a 
woman  who  was  flesh  and  blood,  and  who  was 
as  true  and  as  beautiful  as  the  blue  flower  he 
had  carried  against  his  breast.  In  that  moment 
he  would  have  liked  to  grip  Scottie  Deane  by 
the  hand,  because  he  was  her  husband  and 


ISOBEL 

because  he  was  man  enough  to  make  her  love 
him.  Perhaps  it  was  Deane  who  had  hung  the 
wreath  of  bakneesh  on  his  tent  and  who  had 
scribbled  the  words  in  charcoal.  And  Deane 
surely  knew  of  the  note  his  wife  had  written. 
The  feeling  of  brotherhood  grew  stronger  in 
Billy,  and  thought  of  their  faith  in  him  filled 
him  with  a  strange  elation. 

The  fire  was  growing  low,  and  he  turned  to 
add  fresh  fuel.  His  eyes  caught  sight  of  the 
box  in  the  tent,  and  he  dragged  it  out.  He  was 
about  to  throw  it  on  the  fire  when  he  hesitated 
and  examined  it  more  closely.  How  far  had 
they  come,  he  wondered?  It  must  have  been 
from  the  other  side  of  the  Barren,  for  Deane 
had  built  the  box  to  protect  Isobel  from  the 
fierce  winds  of  the  open.  It  was  built  of  light, 
dry  wood,  hewn  with  a  belt  ax,  and  the  corners 
were  fastened  with  babiche  cord  made  of  caribou 
skin  in  place  of  nails.  The  balsam  that  had 
been  placed  in  it  for  Isobel  was  still  in  the  box, 
and  Billy's  heart  beat  a  little  more  quickly  as 
he  drew  it  out.  It  had  been  Isobel's  bed.  He 
could  see  where  the  balsam  was  thicker,  where 
her  head  had  rested.  With  a  sudden  breathless 
cry  he  thrust  the  box  on  the  fire. 

He  was  not  hungry,  but  he  made  himself  a 
42 


THE    MAN-HUNTERS 

pot  of  coffee  and  drank  it.  Until  now  he  had 
not  observed  that  the  storm  was  growing 
steadily  worse.  The  thick,  low-hanging  spruce 
broke  the  force  of  it.  Beyond  the  shelter  of 
the  forest  he  could  hear  the  roar  of  it  as  it  swept 
through  the  thin  scrub  and  open  spaces  of  the 
edge  of  the  Barren.  It  recalled  him  once  more 
to  Pelliter.  In  the  excitement  of  Isobel's 
presence  and  the  shock  and  despair  that  had 
followed  her  flight  he  had  been  guilty  of  partly 
forgetting  Pelliter.  By  the  time  he  reached 
the  Eskimo  igloos  there  would  be  two  days  lost. 
Those  two  days  might  mean  everything  to  his 
sick  comrade.  He  jumped  to  his  feet,  felt  in 
his  pocket  to  see  that  the  letters  were  safe,  and 
began  to  arrange  his  pack.  Through  the  trees 
there  came  now  fine  white  volleys  of  blistering 
snow.  It  was  like  the  hardest  granulated  sugar. 
A  sudden  blast  of  it  stung  his  eyes;  and,  leaving 
his  pack  and  tent,  he  made  his  way  anxiously 
toward  the  more  open  timber  and  scrub.  A  few 
hundred  yards  from  the  camp  he  was  forced 
to  bow  his  head  against  the  snow  volleys  and 
pull  the  broad  flaps  of  his  cap  down  over  his 
cheeks  and  ears.  A  hundred  yards  more  and  he 
stopped,  sheltering  himself  behind  a  gnarled  and 
stunted  banskian.  He  looked  out  into  the 
4  43 


ISOBEL 

beginning  of  the  open.  It  was  a  white  and 
seething  chaos  into  which  he  could  not  see  the 
distance  of  a  pistol  shot.  The  Eskimo  igloos 
were  twenty  miles  across  the  Barren,  and 
Billy's  heart  sank.  He  could  not  make  it. 
No  man  could  live  in  the  storm  that  was  sweep- 
ing straight  down  from  the  Arctic,  and  he  turned 
back  to  the  camp.  He  had  scarcely  made  the 
move  when  he  was  startled  by  a  strange  sound 
coming  with  the  wind.  He  faced  the  white 
blur  again,  a  hand  dropping  to  his  empty  pistol 
holster.  It  came  again,  and  this  time  he 
recognized  it.  It  was  a  shout,  a  man's  voicet 
Instantly  his  mind  leaped  to  Deane  and  Isobel. 
What  miracle  could  be  bringing  them  back? 

A  shadow  grew  out  of  the  twisting  blur  of  the 
storm.  It  quickly  separated  itself  into  definite 
parts — a  team  of  dogs,  a  sledge,  three  men.  A 
minute  more  and  the  dogs  stopped  in  a  snarling 
tangle  as  they  saw  Billy.  Billy  stepped  forth. 
Almost  instantly  he  found  a  revolver  leveled  at 
his  breast. 

' '  Put  that  up,  Bucky  Smith, ' '  he  called.  ' '  If 
you're  looking  for  a  man  you've  found  the 
wrong  one!" 

The  man  advanced.  His  eyes  were  red  and 
44 


THE   MAN-HUNTERS 

staring.  His  pistol  arm  dropped  as  he  came 
within  a  yard  of  Billy. 

"By—  It's  you,  is  it,  Billy  MacVeigh!"  he 
exclaimed.  His  laugh  was  harsh  and  unpleas- 
ant. Bucky  was  a  corporal  in  the  service,  and 
when  Billy  had  last  heard  of  him  he  was  sta- 
tioned at  Nelson  House.  For  a  year  the  two 
men  had  been  in  the  same  patrol,  and  there  was 
bad  blood  between  them.  Billy  had  never  told 
of  a  certain  affair  down  at  Norway  House,  the 
knowledge  of  which  at  headquarters  would  have 
meant  Bucky 's  disgraceful  retirement  from  the 
force.  But  he  had  called  Bucky  out  in  fair  fight 
and  had  whipped  him  within  an  inch  of  his  life. 
The  old  hatred  burned  in  the  corporal's  eyes  as 
he  stared  into  Billy's  face.  Billy  ignored  the 
look,  and  shook  hands  with  the  other  men. 
One  of  them  was  a  Hudson's  Bay  Company's 
driver,  and  the  other  was  Constable  Walker, 
from  Churchill. 

"Thought  we'd  never  live  to  reach  shelter," 
gasped  Walker,  as  they  shook  hands.  "We're 
out  after  Scottie  Deane,  and  we  ain't  losing  a 
minute.  We're  going  to  get  him,  too.  His 
trail  is  so  hot  we  can  smell  it.  My  God,  but  I'm 
bushed!" 

The  dogs,  with  the  company  man  at  their 
45 


ISOBEL 

head,  were  already  making  for  the  camp. 
Billy  grinned  at  the  corporal  as  they  followed. 

"Had  a  pretty  good  chance  to  get  me,  if 
you'd  been  alone,  didn't  you,  Bucky  ?"  he  asked, 
in  a  voice  that  Walker  did  not  hear.  ' '  You  see, 
I  haven't  forgotten  your  threat." 

There  was  a  steely  hardness  behind  his 
laugh.  He  knew  that  Bucky  Smith  was  a 
scoundrel  whose  good  fortune  was  that  he  had 
never  been  found  out  in  some  of  his  evil  work. 
In  a  flash  his  mind  traveled  back  to  that  day  at 
Norway  House  when  Rousseau,  the  half  French- 
man, had  come  to  him  from  a  sick-bed  to  tell  him 
that  Bucky  had  ruined  his  young  wife.  Rous- 
seau, who  should  have  been  in  bed  with  his  fever, 
died  two  days  later.  Billy  could  still  hear  the 
taunt  in  Bucky's  voice  when  he  had  cornered 
him  with  Rousseau's  accusation,  and  the  fight 
had  followed.  The  thought  that  this  man  was 
now  close  after  Isobel  and  Deane  filled  him  with 
a  sort  of  rage,  and  as  Walker  went  ahead  he  laid 
a  hand  on  Bucky's  arm. 

"I've  been  thinking  about  you  of  late, 
Bucky,"  he  said.  "I've  been  thinking  a  lot 
about  that  affair  down  at  Norway,  an'  I've  been 
kicking  myself  for  not  reporting  it.  I'm  going 
to  do  it — unless  you  cut  a  right-angle  track 
46 


THE   MAN-HUNTERS 

to  the  one  you're  taking.  I'm  after  Scottie 
Deane  myself!" 

In  the  next  breath  he  could  have  cut  out  his 
tongue  for  having  uttered  the  words.  A  gleam 
of  triumph  shot  into  Bucky's  eyes. 

"I  thought  we  was  right,"  he  said.  "We 
sort  of  lost  the  trail  in  the  storm.  Glad  we 
found  you  to  set  us  right.  How  much  of  a 
start  of  us  has  he  and  that  squaw  that's  travel- 
ing with  him  got?" 

Billy's  mittened  hands  clenched  fiercely.  He 
made  no  reply,  but  followed  quickly  after 
Walker.  His  mind  worked  swiftly.  As  he 
came  in  to  the  fire  he  saw  that  the  dogs  had 
already  dropped  down  in  their  traces  and  that 
they  were  exhausted.  Walker's  face  was 
pinched,  his  eyes  half  closed  by  the  sting  of  the 
snow.  The  driver  was  half  stretched  out  on  the 
sledge,  his  feet  to  the  fire.  In  a  glance  he  had 
assured  himself  that  both  dogs  and  men  had 
gone  through  a  long  and  desperate  struggle  in 
the  storm.  He  looked  at  Bucky,  and  this  time 
there  was  neither  rancor  nor  threat  in  his  voice 
when  he  spoke. 

"You  fellows  have  had  a  hard  time  of  it,"  he 
said.  "Make  yourselves  at  home.  I'm  not 
overburdened  with  grub,  but  if  you'll  dig  out 
47 


ISOBEL 

some  of  your  own  rations  I'll  get  it  ready  while 
you  thaw  out." 

Bucky  was  looking  curiously  at  the  two  tents. 

"Who's  with  you?"  he  asked. 

Billy  shrugged  his  shoulders.  His  voice  was 
almost  affable. 

"Hate  to  tell  you  who  was  with  me,  Bucky," 
he  laughed.  "I  came  in  late  last  night,  half 
dead,  and  found  a  half-breed  camped  here — in 
that  silk  tent.  He  was  quite  chummy — mighty 
fine  chap.  Young  fellow,  too — almost  a  kid. 
When  I  got  up  this  morning —  Billy  shrugged 
his  shoulders  again  and  pointed  to  his  empty 
pistol  holster.  "Everything  was  gone — dogs, 
sledge,  extra  tent,  even  my  rifle  and  automatic. 
He  wasn't  quite  bad,  though,  for  he  left  me  my 
grub.  He  was  a  funny  cuss,  too.  Look  at 
that !"  He  pointed  to  the  bakneesh  wreath  that 
still  hung  to  the  front  of  his  tent.  "  'In  honor 
of  the  living,' "  he  read,  aloud.  "Just  a  sort  of 
reminder,  you  know,  that  he  might  have  hit 
me  on  the  head  with  a  club  if  he'd  wanted  to." 
He  came  nearer  to  Bucky,  and  said,  good- 
naturedly:  "I  guess  you've  got  me  beat  this 
time,  Bucky.  Scottie  Deane  is  pretty  safe  from 
me,  wherever  he  is.  I  haven't  even  got  a 
gun!" 

48 


THE    MAN-HUNTERS 

"He  must  have  left  a  trail,"  remarked  Bucky, 
eying  him  shrewdly. 

"He  did— out  there!" 

As  Bucky  went  to  examine  what  was  left  of 
.  the  trail  Billy  thanked  Heaven  that  Deane  had 
placed  Isobel  on  the  -sledge  before  he  left  camp. 
There  was  nothing  to  betray  her  presence. 
Walker  had  unlaced  their  outfit,  and  Billy  was 
busy  preparing  a  meal  when  Bucky  returned. 
There  was  a  sneer  on  his  lips. 

"Didn't  know  you  was  that  easy,"  he  said. 
"Wonder  why  he  didn't  take  his  tent!  Pretty 
good  tent,  isn't  it?" 

He  went  inside.  A  minute  later  he  appeared 
at  the  flap  and  called  to  Billy. 

' '  Look  here !"  he  said,  and  there  was  a  tremble 
of  excitement  in  his  voice.  His  eyes  were  blaz- 
ing with  an  ugly  triumph.  "Your  half-breed 
had  pretty  long  hair,  didn't  he?" 

He  pointed  to  a  splinter  on  one  of  the  light 
tent-poles.  Billy's  heart  gave  a  sudden  jump. 
A  tress  of  Isobel's  long,  loose  hair  had  caught 
in  the  splinter,  and  a  dozen  golden-brown 
strands  had  remained  to  give  him  away.  For 
a  moment  he  forgot  that  Bucky  Smith  was 
watching  him.  He  saw  Isobel  again  as  she  had 
last  entered  the  tent,  her  beautiful  hair  flowing 

49 


ISOBEL 

in  a  firelit  glory  about  her,  her  eyes  still  filled 
with  tender  gratitude.  Once  more  he  felt  the 
warmth  of  her  lips,  the  touch  of  her  hand,  the 
thrill  of  her  presence  near  him.  Perhaps  these 
emotions  covered  any  suspicious  movement  or 
word  by  which  he  might  otherwise  have  be- 
trayed himself.  By  the  time  they  were  gone  he 
had  recovered  himself,  and  he  turned  to  his 
companion  with  a  low  laugh. 

"It's  a  woman's  hair,  all  right,  Bucky.  He 
told  me  all  sorts  of  nice  things  about  a  girl 
'  back  home. '  They  must  have  been  true. ' ' 

The  eyes  of  the  two  men  met  unflinchingly. 
There  was  a  sneer  on  Bucky 's  lips;  Billy  was 
smiling. 

"I'm  going  to  follow  this  Frenchman  after 
we've  had  a  little  rest,"  said  the  corporal,  trying 
to  cover  a  certain  note  of  excitement  and 
triumph  in  his  voice.  ' '  There's  a  woman  travel- 
ing with  Scottie  Deane,  you  know — a  white 
woman — and  there's  only  one  other  north  of 
Churchill.  Of  course,  you're  anxious  to  get 
back  your  stolen  outfit?" 

"You  bet  I  am,"  exclaimed  Billy,  concealing 

the  effect  of  the  bull's-eye  shot  Bucky  had  made. 

"I'm  not  particularly  happy  in  the  thought  of 

reporting  myself  stripped  in  this  sort  of  way. 

So 


THE    MAN-HUNTERS 

The  breed  will  hang  to  thick  cover,  and  it  won't 
be  difficult  to  follow  his  trail." 

He  saw  that  Bucky  was  a  little  taken  aback 
by  his  ready  acquiescence,  and  before  the  other 
could  reply  he  hurried  out  to  join  Walker  in  the 
preparation  of  breakfast.  He  made  a  gallon  of 
tea,  fried  some  bacon,  and  brought  out  and 
toasted  his  own  stock  of  frozen  bannock.  He 
made  a  second  kettle  of  tea  while  the  others 
were  eating,  and  shook  out  the  blankets  in  his 
own  tent.  Walker  had  told  him  that  they  had 
traveled  nearly  all  night. 

"Better  have  an  hour  or  two  of  sleep  before 
you  go  on,"  he  invited. 

The  driver's  name  was  Conway.  He  was  the 
first  to  accept  Billy's  invitation.  When  he  had 
finished  eating,  Walker  followed  him  into  the 
tent.  When  they  were  gone  Bucky  looked  hard 
at  Billy. . 

"What's  your  game?"  he  asked. 

"The  Golden  Rule,  that's  all,"  replied  Billy, 
proffering  his  tobacco.  ' '  The  half-breed  treated 
me  square  and  made  me  comfortable,  even  if  he 
did  take  his  pay  afterward.  I'm  doing  the 
same." 

"And  what  do  you  expect  to  take — after- 
ward?" 

Si 


ISOBEL 

Billy's  eyes  narrowed  as  he  returned  the 
other's  searching  look. 

"Bucky,  I  didn't  think  you  were  quite  a  fool," 
he  said.  "You've  got  a  little  decency  in  your 
hide,  haven't  you?  A  man  might  as  well  be  in 
jail  as  up  here  without  a  gun.  I  expect  you  to 
contribute  one — when  you  go  after  the  half- 
breed — you  or  Walker.  He'll  do  it  if  you  won't. 
Better  go  in  with  the  others.  I'll  keep  up  the 
fire." 

Bucky  rose  sullenly.  He  was  still  suspicious 
of  Billy's  hospitality,  but  at  the  same  time  he 
could  see  the  strength  of  Billy's  argument  and 
the  importance  of  the  price  he  was  asking.  He 
joined  Walker  and  Conway.  Fifteen  minutes 
later  Billy  approached  the  tent  and  looked  in. 
The  three  men  were  in  the  deep  sleep  of  exhaus- 
tion. Instantly  Billy's  actions  changed.  He 
had  thrown  his  pack  outside  the  tent  to  make 
more  room,  and  he  quickly  slipped  a  spare 
blanket  in  with  his  provisions.  Then  he  en- 
tered the  other  tent,  and  a  flush  spread  over  his 
face,  and  he  felt  his  blood  grow  warmer. 

"You  may  be  a  fool,  Billy  MacVeigh,"  he 
laughed,  softly.  "You  may  be  a  fool,  but 
we're  going  to  do  it!" 

Gently  he  disentangled  the  long  silken 
52 


THE    MAN-HUNTERS 

strands  of  golden  brown  from  the  tent -pole. 
He  wound  the  hair  about  his  fingers,  and  it 
made  a  soft  and  shining  ring.  It  was  all  that 
he  would  ever  possess  of  Isobel  Deane,  and  his 
breath  came  more  quickly  as  he  pressed  it  for 
a  moment  to  his  rough  and  storm-beaten  face. 
He  put  it  in  his  pocket,  carefully  wrapped  in 
Isobel's  note,  and  then  once  more  he  went  back 
to  the  tent  in  which  the  three  men  were  sleeping. 
They  had  not  moved.  Walker's  holster  was 
within  reach  of  his  hand.  For  a  moment  the 
temptation  to  reach  out  and  pluck  the  gun  from 
it  was  strong.  He  pulled  himself  away.  He 
would  win  in  this  fight  with  Bucky  as  surely  as 
he  had  won  in  the  other,  and  he  would  win 
without  theft.  Quickly  he  threw  his  pack  over 
his  shoulder  and  struck  the  trail  made  by  Deane 
in  his  flight.  On  his  snow-shoes  he  followed  it 
in  a  long,  swift  pace.  A  hundred  yards  from 
the  camp  he  looked  back  for  an  instant.  Then 
he  turned,  and  his  face  was  grim  and  set. 

"If  you've  got  to  be  caught,  it's  not  going  to 
be  by  that  outfit  back  there,  Mr.  Scottie  Deane," 
he  said  to  himself.  ' '  It's  up  to  yours  truly,  and 
Billy  MacVeigh  is  the  man  who  can  do  the 
trick,  if  he  hasn't  got  a  gun!" 

53 


BILLY   FOLLOWS   ISOBEL 

FROM  the  first  Billy  could  see  the  difficulty 
with  which  Deane  and  his  dogs  had  made 
their  way  through  the  soft  drifts  of  snow  piled 
up  by  the  blizzard.  In  places  where  the  trees 
had  thinned  out  Deane  had  floundered  ahead 
and  pulled  with  the  team.  Only  once  in  the 
first  mile  had  Isobel  climbed  from  the  sledge, 
and  that  was  where  traces,  toboggan,  and  team 
had  all  become  mixed  up  in  the  snow-covered 
top  of  a  fallen  tree.  The  fact  that  Deane  was 
compelling  his  wife  to  ride  added  to  Billy's 
liking  for  the  man.  It  was  probable  that  Isobel 
had  not  gone  to  sleep  at  all  after  her  hard 
experience  on  the  Barren,  but  had  lain  awake 
planning  with  her  husband  until  the  hour  of 
their  flight.  If  Isobel  had  been  able  to  travel 
on  snow-shoes  Billy  reasoned  that  Deane  would 
have  left  the  dogs  behind,  for  in  the  deep,  soft 
snow  he  could  have  made  better  time  with- 
54 


BILLY    FOLLOWS    ISOBEL 

out  them,  and  snow-shoe  trails  would  have  been 
obliterated  by  the  storm  hours  ago.  As  it  was, 
he  could  not  lose  them.  He  knew  that  he  had 
no  time  to  lose  if  he  made  sure  of  beating  out 
Bucky  and  his  men.  The  suspicious  corporal 
would  not  sleep  long.  While  he  had  the  ad- 
vantage of  being  comparatively  fresh,  Billy's 
snow-shoes  were  smoothing  and  packing  the 
trail,  and  the  others,  if  they  followed,  would  be 
able  to  travel  a  mile  or  two  an  hour  faster  than 
himself.  That  Bucky  would  follow  he  did  not 
doubt  for  a  moment.  The  corporal  was  already 
half  convinced  that  Scottie  Deane  had  made 
the  trail  from  camp  and  that  the  hair  he  had 
found  entangled  in  the  splinter  on  the  tent-pole 
belonged  to  the  outlaw's  wife.  And  Scottie 
Deane  was  too  big  a  prize  to  lose. 

Billy's  mind  worked  rapidly  as  he  bent  more 
determinedly  to  the  pursuit.  He  knew  that 
there  were  only  two  things  that  Bucky  could  do 
under  the  circumstances.  Either  he  would 
follow  after  him  with  Walker  and  the  driver 
or  he  would  come  alone.  If  Walker  and  Con- 
way  accompanied  him  the  fight  for  Scottie 
Deane 's  capture  would  be  a  fair  one,  and  the 
man  who  first  put  manacles  about  the  outlaw's 
wrists  would  be  the  victor.  But  if  he  left  his 
55 


ISOBEL 

two  companions  in  camp  and  came  after  him 
alone — 

The  thought  was  not  a  pleasant  one.  He  was 
almost  sorry  that  he  had  not  taken  Walker's 
gun.  If  Bucky  came  alone  it  would  be  with 
but  one  purpose  in  mind — to  make  sure  of 
Scottie  Dean  by  "squaring  up"  with  him  first. 
Billy  was  sure  that  he  had  measured  the  man 
right,  and  that  he  would  not  hesitate  to  carry 
out  his  old  threat  by  putting  a  bullet  into  him 
at  the  first  opportunity.  And  here  would  be 
opportunity.  The  storm  would  cover  up  any 
foul  work  he  might  accomplish,  and  his  reward 
would  be  Scottie  Deane — unless  Deane  played 
too  good  a  hand  for  him. 

At  thought  of  Deane  Billy  chuckled.  Until 
now  he  had  not  taken  him  fully  into  considera- 
tion, and  suddenly  it  dawned  upon  him  that 
there  was  a  bit  of  humor  as  well  as  tragedy  in 
the  situation.  He  cheerfully  conceded  to  him- 
self that  for  a  long  time  Deane  had  proved  him- 
self a  better  man  than  either  Bucky  or  himself, 
and  that,  after  all,  he  was  the  man  who  held  the 
situation  well  in  hand  even  now.  He  was  well 
armed.  He  was  as  cautions  as  a  fox,  and  would 
not  be  caught  napping.  And  yet  this  thought 
filled  Billy  with  satisfaction  rather  than  fear. 
56 


BILLY    FOLLOWS    ISOBEL 

Deane  would  be  more  than  a  match  for  Bucky 
alone  if  he  failed  in  beating  out  the  corporal. 
But  if  he  did  beat  him  out — 

Billy's  lips  set  grimly,  and  there  was  a  hard 
light  in  his  eyes  as  he  glanced  back  over  his 
shoulder.  He  would  not  only  beat  him  out, 
but  he  would  capture  Scottie  Deane.  It  would 
be  a  game  of  fox  against  fox,  and  he  would  win. 
No  one  would  ever  know  why  he  was  playing 
the  game  as  he  had  planned  to  play  it.  Bucky 
would  never  know.  Down  at  headquarters  they 
would  never  know.  And  yet  deep  down  in  his 
heart  he  hoped  and  believed  that  Isobel  would 
guess  and  understand.  To  save  Deane,  to  save 
Isobel,  he  must  keep  them  out  of  the  hands  of 
Bucky  Smith,  and  to  do  that  he  must  make  them 
his  own  prisoners.  It  would  be  a  terrible 
ordeal  at  first.  A. picture  of  Isobel  rose  before 
him,  her  faith  and  trust  in  him  broken,  her  face 
white  and  drawn  with  grief  and  despair,  her 
blue  eyes  flashing  at  him — hatred.  But  he  felt 
now  that  he  could  stand  those  things.  One 
moment — the  fatal  moment,  when  she  would 
understand  and  know  that  he  had  remained 
true — would  repay  him  for  what  he  might  suffer. 

He  traveled  swiftly  for  an  hour,  and  paused 
then  to  get  his  wind  where  the  partly  covered 
57 


ISOBEL 

trail  dipped  down  into  a  frozen  swamp.  Here 
Isobel  had  climbed  from  the  sledge  and  had 
followed  in  the  path  of  the  toboggan.  In  places 
where  the  spruce  and  balsam  were  thick  over- 
head Billy  could  make  out  the  imprints  of  her 
moccasins.  Deane  had  led  the  dogs  in  the 
darkness  of  the  storm,  and  twice  Billy  found 
the  burned  ends  of  matches,  where  he  had 
stopped  to  look  at  his  compass.  He  was  strik- 
ing a  course  almost  due  west.  At  the  farther 
edge  of  the  swamp  the  trail  struck  a  lake,  and 
straight  across  this  Deane  had  led  his  team. 
The  worst  of  the  storm  was  over  now.  The 
wind  was  slowly  shifting  to  the  south  and  east, 
and  the  fine,  steely  snow  had  given  place  to  a 
thicker  and  softer  downfall.  Billy  shuddered 
as  he  thought  of  what  this  lake  must  have  been 
a  few  hours  before,  when  Isobel  and  Deane  had 
crossed  it  in  the  thick  blackness  of  the  blizzard 
that  had  swept  it  like  a  hurricane. 

It  was  half  a  mile  across  the  lake,  and  here, 
fifty  yards  from  shore,  the  trail  was  completely 
covered.  Billy  lost  no  time  by  endeavoring  to 
find  signs  of  it  in  the  open,  but  struck  directly 
for  the  opposite  timber  field  and  swung  along 
in  the  shelter  of  the  scrub  forest.  He  picked 
up  the  trail  easily.  Half  an  hour  later  he 
58 


BILLY    FOLLOWS    ISOBEL 

stopped.  Spruce  and  balsam  grew  thick  about 
him,  shutting  out  what  was  left  of  the  wind. 
Here  Scottie  Deane  had  stopped  to  build  a  fire. 
Close  to  the  charred  embers  was  a  mass  of 
balsam  boughs  on  which  Isobel  had  rested. 
Scottie  had  made  a  pot  of  boiling  tea  and  had 
afterward  thrown  the  grounds  on  the  snow. 
The  warm  bodies  of  the  dogs  had  made  smooth, 
round  pits  in  the  snow,  and  Billy  figured  that 
the  fugitives  had  rested  for  a  couple  of  hours. 
They  had  traveled  eight  miles  through  the 
blizzard  without  a  fire,  and  his  heart  was  filled 
with  a  sickening  pain  as  he  thought  of  Isobel 
Deane  and  the  suffering  he  had  brought  to  her. 
For  a  few  moments  there  swept  over  him  a  re- 
vulsion for  that  thing  which  he  stood  for — the 
Law.  More  than  once  in  his  experience  he  had 
thought  that  its  punishment  had  been  greater 
than  the  crime.  Isobel  had  suffered,  and  was 
suffering,  far  more  than  if  Deane  had  been  cap- 
tured a  year  before  and  hanged.  And  Deane 
himself  had  paid  a  penalty  greater  than  death 
in  being  a  witness  of  the  suffering  of  the  woman 
who  had  remained  loyal  to  him.  Billy's  heart 
went  out  to  them  in  a  low,  yearning  cry  as  he 
looked  at  the  balsam  bed  and  the  black  char  of 
the  fire.  He  wished  that  he  could  give  them 
S  59 


I  S  O  BEL 

life  and  freedom  and  happiness,  and  his  hands 
clenched  tightly  as  he  thought  that  he  was 
willing  to  surrender  everything,  even  to  his  own 
honor,  for  the  woman  he  loved. 

Fifteen  minutes  after  he  had  struck  the  shelter 
of  the  camp  he  was  again  in  pursuit.  His 
blood  leaped  a  little  excitedly  when  he  found 
that  Scottie  Deane's  trail  was  now  almost  as 
straight  as  a  plumb-line  and  that  the  sledge  no 
longer  became  entangled  in  hidden  windfalls 
and  brush.  It  was  proof  that  it  was  light  when 
Deane  and  Isobel  had  left  their  camp.  Isobel 
was  walking  now,  and  their  sledge  was  traveling 
faster.  Billy  encouraged  his  own  pace,  and 
over  two  or  three  open  spaces  he  broke  into  a 
long,  swinging  run.  The  trail  was  compara- 
tively fresh,  and  at  the  end  of  another  hour  he 
knew  that  they  could  not  be  far  ahead  of  him. 
He  had  followed  through  a  thin  swamp  and  had 
climbed  to  the  top  of  a  rough  ridge  when  he 
stopped.  Isobel  had  reached  the  bald  cap  of 
the  ridge  exhausted.  The  last  twenty  yards  he 
could  see  where  Deane  had  assisted  her;  and 
then  she  had  dropped  down  in  the  snow,  and  he 
had  placed  a  blanket  under  her.  They  had 
taken  a  drink  of  tea  made  back  over  the  fire, 
and  a  little  of  it  had  fallen  into  the  snow.  It 
60 


BILLY    FOLLOWS    ISOBEL 

had  not  yet  formed  ice,  and  instinctively  he 
dropped  behind  a  rock  and  looked  down  into 
the  wooded  valley  at  his  feet.  In  a  few  mo- 
ments he  began  to  descend. 

He  had  almost  reached  the  foot  of  the  ridge 
when  he  brought  himself  short  with  a  sudden 
low  cry  of  horror.  He  had  reached  a  point 
where  the  side  of  the  ridge  seemed  to  have 
broken  off,  leaving  a  precipitous  wall.  In  a 
flash  he  realized  what  had  happened.  Deane 
and  Isobel  had  descended  upon  a  "snow  trap," 
and  it  had  given  way  under  their  weight,  plung- 
ing them  to  the  rocks  below.  For  no  longer 
than  a  breath  he  stood  still,  and  in  that  moment 
there  came  a  sound  from  far  behind  that  sent 
a  strange  thrill  through  him.  It  was  the  howl 
of  a  dog.  Bucky  and  his  men  were  in  close 
pursuit,  and  they  were  traveling  with  the  team. 

He  swung  a  little  to  the  left  to  escape  the  edge 
of  the  trap  and  plunged  recklessly  to  the  bottom. 
Not  until  he  saw  where  Scottie  Deane  and  the 
team  had  dragged  themselves  from  the  snow 
avalanche  did  he  breathe  freely  again.  Isobel 
was  safe !  He  laughed  in  his  joy  and  wiped  the 
nervous  sweat  from  his  face  as  he  saw  the 
prints  of  her  moccasins  where  Deane  had 
righted  the  sledge.  And  then,  for  the  first 

61 


ISOBEL 

time,  he  observed  a  number  of  small  red  stains 
on  the  snow.  Either  Isobel  or  Deane  had  been 
injured  in  the  fall,  perhaps  slightly.  A  hundred 
yards  from  the  "trap"  the  sledge  had  stopped 
again,  and  from  this  point  it  was  Deane  who 
rode  and  Isobel  who  walked! 

He  followed  more  cautiously  now.  Another 
hundred  yards  and  he  stopped  to  sniff  the  air. 
Ahead  of  him  the  spruce  and  balsam  grew  close 
and  thick,  and  from  that  shelter  he  was  sure 
that  something  was  coming  to  him  on  the  air. 
At  first  he  thought  it  was  the  odor  of  the  balsam. 
A  moment  later  he  knew  that  it  was  smoke. 

Force  of  habit  brought  his  hand  for  the  twen- 
tieth time  to  his  empty  pistol  holster.  Its 
emptiness  added  to  the  caution  with  which  he 
approached  the  thick  spruce  and  balsam  ahead 
of  him.  Taking  advantage  of  a  mass  of  low 
snow-laden  bushes,  he  swung  out  at  a  right 
angle  to  the  trail  and  began  making  a  wide 
circle.  He  worked  swiftly.  Within  half  or 
three-quarters  of  an  hour  Bucky  would  reach 
the  ridge.  Whatever  he  accomplished  must  be 
done  before  then.  Five  minutes  after  leaving 
the  trail  he  caught  his  first  glimpse  of  smoke 
and  began  to  edge  in  toward  the  fire.  The 
stillness  oppressed  him.  He  drew  nearer  and 
62 


BILLY    FOLLOWS    ISOBEL 

nearer,  yet  he  heard  no  sound  of  voice  or  of  the 
dogs.  At  last  he  reached  a  point  where  he 
could  look  out  from  behind  a  young  ground 
spruce  and  see  the  fire.  It  was  not  more  than 
thirty  feet  away.  He  held  his  breath  tensely 
at  what  he  saw.  On  a  blanket  spread  out  close 
to  the  fire  lay  Scottie  Deane,  his  head  pillowed 
on  a  pack-sack.  There  was  no  sign  of  Isobel, 
and  no  sign  of  the  sledge  and  dogs.  Billy's 
heart  thumped  excitedly  as  he  rose  to  his  feet. 
He  did  not  stop  to  ask  himself  where  Isobel  and 
the  dogs  had  gone.  Deane  was  alone,  and  lay 
with  his  back  toward  him.  Fate  could  not  have 
given  him  a  better  opportunity,  and  his  moc- 
casined  feet  fell  swiftly  and  quietly  in  the  snow. 
He  was  within  six  feet  of  Scottie  before  the  in- 
jured man  heard  him,  and  scarcely  had  the 
other  moved  when  he  was  upon  him.  He  was 
astonished  at  the  ease  with  which  he  twisted 
Deane  upon  his  back  and  put  the  handcuffs 
about  his  wrists.  The  work  was  no  sooner  done 
than  he  understood.  A  rag  was  tied  about 
Deane's  head,  and  it  was  stained  with  blood. 
The  man's  arms  and  body  were  limp.  He 
looked  at  Billy  with  dulled  eyes,  and  as  he 
slowly  realized  what  had  happened  a  groan 
broke  from  his  lips. 

63 


ISOBEL 

In  an  instant  Billy  was  on  his  knees  beside 
him.  He  had  seen  Deane  twice  before,  over  at 
Churchill,  but  this  was  the  first  time  that  he  had 
ever  looked  closely  into  his  face.  It  was  a  face 
worn  by  hardship  and  mental  torture.  The 
cheeks  were  thinned,  and  the  steel-gray  eyes 
that  looked  up  into  Billy's  were  reddened  by 
weeks  and  months  of  fighting  against  storm. 
It  was  the  face,  not  of  a  criminal,  but  of  a  man 
whom  Billy  would  have  trusted  —  blonde- 
mustached,  fearless,  and  filled  with  that  clean- 
cut  strength  which  associates  itself  with  fairness 
and  open  fighting.  Hardly  had  he  drawn  a 
second  breath  when  Billy  realized  why  this 
man  had  not  killed  him  when  he  had  the  chance. 
Deane  was  not  of  the  sort  to  strike  in  the  dark 
or  from  behind.  He  had  let  Billy  live  because 
he  still  believed  in  the  manhood  of  man,  and 
the  thought  that  he  had  repaid  Deane 's  faith 
in  him  by  leaping  upon  him  when  he  was  down 
and  wounded  filled  Billy  with  a  bitter  shame. 
He  gripped  one  of  Deane's  hands  in  his  own. 

"I  hate  to  do  this,   old  man,"   he  cried, 

.quickly.     "It's  hell  to  put  those  things  on  a 

1  man  who's  hurt.     But  I've  got  to  do  it.     I 

didn't  mean  to  come  —  no,  s'elp  me  God,  I 

didn't — if  Bucky  Smith  and  two  others  hadn't 

64 


BILLY    FOLLOWS    ISOBEL 

hit  your  trail  back  at  the  old  camp.  They'd 
have  got  you — sure.  And  she  wouldn't  have 
been  safe  with  them.  Understand?  She 
wouldn't  have  been  safe!  So  I  made  up  my 
mind  to  beat  on  ahead  and  take  you  myself.  I 
want  you  to  understand.  And  you  do  know,  I 
guess.  You  must  have  heard,  for  I  thought  you 
were  sure-enough  dead  in  the  box,  an'  I  swear 
to  Heaven  I  meant  all  I  said  then.  I  wouldn't 
have  come.  I  was  glad  you  two  got  away.  But 
this  Bucky  is  a  skunk  and  a  scoundrel — and 
mebbe  if  I  take  tyou — I  can  help  you — later  on. 
They'll  be  here  in  a  few  minutes." 

He  spoke  quickly,  his  voice  quivering  with 
the  emotion  that  inspired  his  words,  and  not  for 
an  instant  did  Scottie  Deane  allow  his  eyes  to 
shift  from  Billy's  face.  When  Billy  stopped  he 
still  looked  at  him  for  a  moment,  judging  the 
truth  of  what  he  had  heard  by  what  he  saw  in 
the  other's  face.  And  then  Billy  felt  his  hand 
tighten  for  an  instant  about  his  own. 

"I  guess  you're  pretty  square,  MacVeigh," 
he  said,  "and  I  guess  it  had  to  come  pretty  soon, 
too.  I'm  not  sorry  that  it's  you — and  I  know 
you'll  take  care  of  her." 

'Til  do  it— if  I  have  to  fight— and  kill!" 

Billy  had  withdrawn  his  hand,  and  both  were 
65 


ISOBEL 

clenched.  Into  Deane's  eyes  there  leaped  a 
sudden  flash  of  fire. 

"That's  what  I  did,"  he  breathed,  gripping 
his  fingers  hard.  ' '  I  killed — for  her.  He  was  a 
skunk — and  a  scoundrel — too.  And  you'd  have 
done  it!"  He  looked  at  Billy  again.  "I'm 
glad  you  said  what  you  did — when  I  was  in  the 
box,"  he  added.  "If  she  wasn't  as  pure  and  as 
sweet  as  the  stars  I'd  feel  different.  But  it's 
just  sort  of  in  my  bones  that  you'll  treat  her  like 
a  brother.  I  haven't  had  faith  in  many  men. 
I've  got  it  in  you." 

Billy  leaned  low  over  the  other.  His  face 
was  flushed,  and  his  voice  trembled. 

"God  bless  you  for  that,  Scottie!"  he  said. 

A  sound  from  the  forest  turned  both  men's 
eyes. 

"She  took  the  dogs  and  went  out  there  a 
little  way  for  a  load  of  wood,"  said  Deane. 
"She's  coming  back." 

Billy  had  leaped  to  his  feet,  and  turned  his 
face  toward  the  ridge.  He,  too,  had  heard  a 
sound — another  sound,  and  from  another  direc- 
tion. He  laughed  grimly  as  he  turned  to 
Deane. 

"And  they're  coming,  too,  Scottie,"  he  replied. 
"They're  climbing  the  ridge.  I'll  take  your 
66 


BILLY    FOLLOWS    ISOBEL 

guns,  old  man.  It's  just  possible  there  may  be 
a  fight!" 

He  slipped  Deane's  revolver  into  his  holster 
and  quickly  emptied  the  chamber  of  the  rifle 
that  stood  near. 

"Where's  mine?"  he  asked. 

"Threw  'em  away,"  said  Deane.  "Those 
are  the  only  guns  in  the  outfit." 

Billy  waited  while  Isobel  Deane  came  through 
the  low-hanging  spruce  with  the  dogs. 


VI 

THE   FIGHT 

TTHERE  was  a  smile  for  Deane  on  Isobel's 
1  lips  as  she  struggled  through  the  spruce, 
knee -deep  in  snow,  the  dogs  tugging  at  the 
sledge  behind  her.  And  then  in  a  moment  she 
saw  MacVeigh,  and  the  smile  froze  into  a  look 
of  horror  on  her  face.  She  was  not  twenty  feet 
distant  when  she  emerged  into  the  little  opening, 
and  Billy  heard  the  rattling  cry  in  her  throat. 
She  stopped,  and  her  hands  went  to  her  breast. 
Deane  had  half  raised  himself,  his  pale,  thin  face 
smiling  encouragingly  at  her;  and  with  a  wild 
cry  Isobel  rushed  to  him  and  flung  herself  upon 
her  knees  at  his  side,  her  hands  gripping  fiercely 
at  the  steel  bands  about  his  wrists.  Billy 
turned  away.  He  could  hear  her  sobbing,  and 
he  could  hear  the  low,  comforting  voice  of  the 
injured  man.  A  groan  of  anguish  rose  to  his 
own  lips,  and  he  clenched  his  hands  hard,  dread- 
ing the  terrible  moment  when  he  would  have  to 
68 


THE    FIGHT 

face  the  woman  he  loved  above  all  else  on 
earth. 

It  was  her  voice  that  brought  him  about. 
She  had  risen  to  her  feet,  and  she  stood  before 
him  panting  like  a  hunted  animal,  and  Billy 
saw  in  her  face  the  thing  which  he  had  feared 
more  than  the  sting  of  death.  No  longer  were 
her  blue  eyes  filled  with  the  sweetness  and  faith 
of  the  angel  who  had  come  to  him  from  out  of  the 
Barren.  They  were  hard  and  terrible  and  filled 
with  that  madness  which  made  him  think  she 
was  about  to  leap  upon  him.  In  those  eyes, 
in  the  quivering  of  her  bare  throat,  in  the  sob- 
bing rise  and  fall  of  her  breast  were  the  rage,  the 
grief,  and  the  fear  of  one  whose  faith  had 
turned  suddenly  into  the  deadliest  of  all  emo- 
tions; and  Billy  stood  before  her  without  a 
word  on  his  lips,  his  face  as  cold  and  as  bloodless 
as  the  snow  under  his  feet. 

"And  so  you — you  followed — after — that!" 
It  was  all  she  said,  and  yet  the  voice,  the  sig- 
nificance of  the  choking  words,  hurt  him  more 
than  if  she  had  struck  him.  In  them  there  was 
none  of  the  passion  and  condemnation  he  had 
expected.  Quietly,  almost  whisperingly  ut- 
tered, they  stung  him  to  the  soul.  He  had 
meant  to  say  to  her  what  he  had  said  to  Deane — 

69 


ISOBEL 

even  more.  But  the  crudeness  of  the  wilderness 
had  made  him  slow  of  tongue,  and  while  his 
heart  cried  out  for  words  Isobel  turned  and 
went  to  her  husband.  And  then  there  came  the 
thing  he  had  been  expecting.  Down  the  ridge 
there  raced  a  flurry  of  snow  and  a  yelping  of 
dogs.  He  loosened  the  revolver  in  his  holster, 
and  stood  in  readiness  when  Bucky  Smith  ran 
a  few  paces  ahead  of  his  men  into  the  camp. 
At  sight  of  his  enemy's  face,  torn  between  rage 
and  disappointment,  all  of  Billy's  old  coolness 
returned  to  him. 

With  a  bound  Bucky  was  at  Scottie  Deane's 
side.  He  looked  down  at  his  manacled  hands 
and  at  the  woman  who  was  clasping  them  in  her 
own,  and  then  he  whirled  on  Billy  with  the  quick- 
ness of  a  cat. 

"You're  a  liar  and  a  sneak!"  he  panted. 
"You'll  answer  for  this  at  headquarters.  I 
understand  now  why  you  let  'em  go  back  there. 
It  was  her!  She  paid  you — paid  you  in  her  own 
way — to  free  him!  But  she  won't  pay  you 
again — " 

At  his  words  Deane  had  started  as  if  stung  by 

a  wasp.     Billy  saw  Isobel's  whitened  face.    The 

meaning  of  Bucky's  words  had  gone  home  to 

her  as  swiftly  as  a  lightning  flash,  and  for  an 

70 


THE    FIGHT 

instant  her  eyes  had  turned  to  him!  Bucky  got 
no  further  than  those  last  words.  Before  he 
could  add  another  syllable  Billy  was  upon  him. 
His  fist  shot  out — once,  twice — and  the  blows 
that  fell  sent  Bucky  crashing  through  the  fire. 
Billy  did  not  wait  for  him  to  regain  his  feet.  A 
red  light  blazed  before  his  eyes.  He  forgot  the 
presence  of  Deane  and  Walker  and  Conway. 
His  one  thought  was  that  the  scoundrel  he  had 
struck  down  had  flung  at  Isobel  the  deadliest 
insult  that  a  man  could  offer  a  woman,  and 
before  either  Conway  or  Walker  could  make  a 
move  he  was  upon  Bucky.  He  did  not  know  how 
long  or  how  many  times  he  struck,  but  when  at 
last  Conway  and  Walker  succeeded  in  dragging 
him  away  Bucky  lay  upon  his  back  in  the 
snow,  blood  gushing  from  his  mouth  and  nose. 
Walker  ran  to  him.  Panting  for  breath,  Billy 
turned  toward  Isobel  and  Deane.  He  was  al- 
most sobbing.  He  made  no  effort  to  speak. 
But  he  saw  that  the  thing  he  had  dreaded  was 
gone.  Isobel  was  looking  at  him  again — and 
there  was  the  old  faith  in  her  eyes.  At  last — 
she  understood!  Dean's  handcuffed  hands  were 
clenched.  The  light  of  brotherhood  shone  in 
his  eyes,  and  where  a  moment  before  there  had 
been  grief  and  despair  in  Billy's  heart  there 


ISOBEL 

came  now  a  warm  glow  of  joy.  Once  more  they 
had  faith  in  him! 

Walker  had  raised  Bucky  to  a  sitting  posture, 
and  was  wiping  the  blood  from  his  face  when 
Billy  went  to  them.  The  corporal's  hand  made 
a  limp  move  toward  his  revolver.  Billy  struck 
it  away  and  secured  the  weapon.  Then  he 
spoke  to  Walker. 

"There  is  no  doubt  in  your  mind  that  I  hold 
a,;sergeancy  in  the  service,  is  there,  Walker?" 
he  asked. 

His  tone  was  no  longer  one  of  comradeship. 
In  it  there  was  the  ring  of  authority.  Walker 
was  quick  to  understand. 

"None,  sir!" 

"And  you  are  familiar  with  our  laws  govern- 
ing insubordination  and  conduct  unbecoming 
an  officer  of  the  service?" 

Walker  nodded. 

"Then,  as  a  superior  officer  and  in  the  name 
of  his  Majesty  the  King,  I  place  Corporal 
Bucky  Smith  under  arrest,  and  commission  you, 
under  oath  of  the  service,  to  take  him  under 
your  guard  to  Churchill,  along  with  the  letter 
which  I  shall  give  you  for  the  officer  in  charge 
there.  I  shall  appear  against  him  a  little 
later  with  the  evidence  that  will  outlaw  him 
72 


THE    FIGHT 

from  the  service.  Put  the  handcuffs  on 
him!" 

Stunned  by  the  sudden  change  in  the  situa- 
tion, Walker  obeyed  without  a  word.  Billy 
turned  to  Conway,  the  driver. 

"Deane  is  too  badly  injured  to  travel," 
he  explained.  "Put  up  your  tent  for  him 
and  his  wife  close  to  the  fire.  You  can 
take  mine  in  exchange  for  it  as  you  go 
back." 

He  went  to  his  kit  and  found  a  pencil  and 
paper.  Fifteen  minutes  later  he  gave  Walker 
the  letter  in  which  he  described  to  the  command- 
ing officer  at  Churchill  certain  things  which  he 
knew  would  hold  Bucky  a  prisoner  until  he 
could  personally  appear  against  him.  Mean- 
while Conway  had  put  up  the  tent  and  had  as- 
sisted Deane  into  it.  Isobel  had  accompanied 
him.  Billy  then  had  a  five-minute  confidential 
talk  with  Walker,  and  when  the  constable  gave 
instructions  for  Conway  to  prepare  the  dogs  for 
the  return  trip  there  was  a  determined  hardness 
in  his  eyes  as  he  looked  at  Bucky.  In  those 
five  minutes  he  had  heard  the  story  of  Rousseau, 
the  young  Frenchman  down  at  Norway  House, 
and  of  the  wife  whose  faithlessness  had  killed 
him.  Besides,  he  hated  Bucky  Smith,  as  all 

73 


ISOBEL 

men  hated  him.  Billy  was  confident  that  he 
could  rely  upon  him. 

Not  until  dogs  and  sledge  were  ready  did 
Bucky  utter  a  word.  The  terrific  beating  he 
had  received  had  stunned  him  for  a  few  minutes ; 
but  now  he  jumped  to  his  feet,  not  waiting  for 
the  command  from  Walker,  and  strode  up  close 
to  Billy.  There  was  a  vengeful  leer  on  •  his 
bloody  face  and  his  eyes  blazed  almost  white, 
but  his  voice  was  so  low  that  Conway  and 
Walker  could  only  hear  the  murmur  of  it. 
His  words  were  meant  for  Billy  alone. 

"For  this  I'm  going  to  kill  you,  MacVeigh," 
he" said;  and  in  spite  of  Billy's  contempt  for  the 
man  there  was  a  quality  in  the  low  voice  that 
sent  a  curious  shiver  through  him.  "You  can 
send  me  from  the  service,  but  you're  going  to 
die  for  doing  it!" 

Billy  made  no  reply,  and  Bucky  did  not  wait 
for  one.  He  set  off  at  the  head  of  the  sledge, 
with  Conway  a  step  behind  them.  Billy  fol- 
lowed with  Walker  until  they  reached  the  foot 
of  the  ridge.  There  they  shook  hands,  and 
Billy  stood  watching  them  until  they  passed 
over  the  cap  of  the  ridge. 

He  returned  to  the  camp  slowly.  Deane  had 
emerged  from  the  tent,  supported  by  Isobel. 

74 


THE    FIGHT 

They  waited  for  him,  and  in  Deane's  face  he 
saw  the  look  that  had  filled  it  after  he  had 
struck  down  Bucky  Smith.  For  a  moment  he 
dared  not  look  at  Isobel.  She  saw  the  change 
in  him,  and  her  cheeks  flushed.  Deane  would 
have  extended  his  hands,  but  she  was  holding 
them  tightly  in  her  own. 

"You'd  better  go  into  the  tent  and  keep 
quiet,"  advised  Billy.  "I  haven't  had  time  yet 
to  see  if  you're  badly  hurt." 

"It's  not  bad,"  Deane  assured  him.  "I 
bumped  into  a  rock  sliding  down  the  ridge,  and 
it  made  me  sick  for  a  few  minutes." 

Billy  knew  that  Isobel's  eyes  were  on  him, 
and  he  could  almost  feel  their  questioning.  He 
began  to  take  wood  from  the  sledge  she  had 
loaded  and  throw  it  on  the  fire.  He  wished  that 
Scottie  and  she  had  remained  in  the  tent  for  a 
little  longer.  His  face  burned  and  his  blood 
seemed  like  fire  when  he  caught  a  glimpse  of  the 
steel  cuffs  about  Deane's  wrists.  Through  the 
smoke  he  saw  Isobel  still  clasping  her  husband. 
He  could  see  one  of  her  little  hands  gripping 
at  the  steel  band,  and  suddenly  he  sprang 
across  and  faced  them,  no  longer  fearing  to 
meet  Isobel's  eyes  or  Deane's.  Now  his  face 
was  aflame,  and  he  half  held  out  his  arms  to 
6  75 


ISOBEL 

them  as  he  spoke,  as  though  he  would  clasp  them 
both  to  him  in  this  moment  of  sacrifice  and  self- 
abnegation  and  the  dawning  of  new  life. 

"You  know — you  both  know  why  I've  done 
this!"  he  cried.  "You  heard  what  I  said  back 
there,  Deane — when  you  was  in  the  box;  an' 
all  I  said  was  true.  She  came  to  me  out  of  that 
storm  like  an  angel — an'  I'll  think  of  her  as  an 
angel  all  my  life.  I  don't  know  much  about 
God — not  the  God  they  have  down  there,  where 
they  take  an  eye  for  an  eye  an'  a  tooth  for  a 
tooth  and  kill  because  some  one  else  has  killed. 
But  there's  something  up  here  in  the  big  open 
places,  something  that  makes  you  think  and 
makes  you  want  to  do  what's  right  and  square; 
an'  she's  got  all  I  know  of  God  in  that  little 
Bible  of  mine — the  blue  flower.  I  gave  the 
blue  flower  to  her,  an'  now  an'  forever  she's 
my  blue  flower.  I  ain't  ashamed  to  tell  you, 
Deane,  because  you've  heard  it  before,  an'  you 
know  I'm  not  thinking  it  in  a  sinful  way.  It  '11 
help  me  if  I  can  see  her  face  an'  hear  her  voice 
and  know  there's  such  love  as  yours  after  you're 
gone.  For  I'm  going  to  let  you  go,  Deane,  old 
man.  That's  what  I  came  for,  to  save  you  from 
the  others  an'  give  you  back  to  her.  I  guess 
mebbe  you'll  know — now — how  I  feel — " 
76 


THE    FIGHT 

His  voice  choked  him.  Isobel's  glorious  eyes 
were  looking  into  his  soul,  and  he  looked 
straight  back  into  them  and  saw  all  his  reward 
there.  He  turned  to  Deane.  His  key  clicked 
in  the  locks  to  the  handcuffs,  and  as  they  fell 
into  the  snow  the  two  men  gripped  hands,  and 
in  their  strong  faces  was  that  rarest  of  all  things 
— love  of  man  for  man. 

"I'm  glad  you  know,"  said  Billy,  softly. 
"It  wouldn't  be  fair  if  you  didn't,  Scottie.  I 
can  think  of  her  now,  an'  it  won't  be  mean  and 
low.  And  if  you  ever  need  help — if  you're  down 
in  South  America  or  Africa — anywhere — I'll 
come  if  you  send  word.  You'd  better  go  to 
South  America.  That's  a  good  place.  I'll  re- 
port to  headquarters  that  you  died — from  the 
fall.  It's  a  lie,  but  blue  flower  would  do  it,  and 
so  will  I.  Sometimes,  you  know,  the  friend  who 
lies  is  the  only  friend  who's  true — and  she'd  do 
it — a  thousand  times — for  you." 

"And  for  you,"  whispered  Isobel. 

She  was  holding  out  her  hands,  her  blue  eyes 
streaming  with  tears  of  happiness,  and  for  a 
moment  Billy  accepted  one  of  them  and  held 
it  in  his  own.  He  looked  over  her  head  as  she 
spoke. 

"God  will  bless  you  for  this — some  day,"  she 
77 


ISOBEL 

said;  and  a  sob  broke  in  her  voice.  "He  will 
bring  you  happiness — happiness — in  what  you 
have  dreamed  of.  You  will  find  a  blue  flower 
—  sweet  and  pure  and  loyal  —  and  then  you 
will  know,  even  more  fully,  what  life  means  to 
me  with  him." 

And  then  she  broke  down,  sobbing  like  a 
child,  and  with  her  face  buried  in  her  hands 
turned  into  the  tent. 

"Gawd!"  whispered  Billy,  drawing  a  deep 
breath. 

He  looked  Deane  in  the  eyes;  and  Deane 
smiled,  a  rare  and  beautiful  smile. 

For  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they  talked  alone, 
and  then  Billy  drew  a  wallet  from  his  pocket. 

"You'll  need  money,  Scottie,"  he  said.  "I 
don't  want  you  to  lose  a  minute  in  getting  out 
of  the  country.  Make  for  Vancouver.  I've 
got  three  hundred  dollars  here.  You've  got  to 
take  it  or  I'll  shoot  you!" 

He  thrust  the  money  into  Deane's  hands  as 
Isobel  came  out  of  the  tent.  Her  eyes  were  red, 
but  she  was  smiling;  and  she  held  something  in 
her  hand.  She  showed  it  to  the  two  men.  It 
was  the  blue  flower  Billy  had  given  her.  But 
now  its  petals  were  torn  apart,  and  nine  of  them 
lay  in  the  palm  of  her  hand. 
78 


THE    FIGHT 

' '  It  can't  go  with  one. ' '  She  spoke  softly  and 
the  smile  died  on  her  lips.  "There  are  nine 
petals,  three  for  each  of  us." 

She  gave  three  to  her  husband  and  three  to 
Billy,  and  for  a  moment  the  men  stared  at  them 
as  they  lay  in  their  rough  and  calloused  palms. 
Then  Billy  drew  out  the  bit  of  buckskin  in 
which  he  had  placed  the  strands  of  Isobel's 
hair  and  slipped  the  blue  petals  in  with  them. 
Deane  had  drawn  a  worn  envelope  from  his 
pocket.  Billy  spoke  low  to  Deane. 

' '  I  want  to  be  alone  for  a  while — until  din- 
ner-time. Will  you  go  into  the  tent  —  with 
her?" 

When  they  were  gone  Billy  went  to  the  spot 
where  he  had  dropped  his  pack  before  crawling 
up  on  Deane.  He  picked  it  up  and  slipped  it 
over  his  shoulders  as  he  walked.  He  went 
swiftly  back  over  his  old  trail,  and  this  time  it 
was  with  a  heart  leaden  with  a  deep  and  terrible 
loneliness.  When  he  reached  the  ridge  he  tried 
to  whistle,  but  his  lips  seemed  thick,  and  there 
was  something  in  his  throat  that  choked  him. 
From  the  cap  of  the  ridge  he  looked  down.  A 
thin  mist  of  smoke  was  rising  from  out  of  the 
spruce.  It  blurred  before  his  eyes,  and  a  sob- 
bing break  came  in  his  low  cry  of  Isobel's  name. 

79 


ISOBEL 

Then  he  turned  once  more  back  into  the  loneli- 
ness and  desolation  of  his  old  life. 

"I'm  coming,  Pelly, ' '  he  laughed, in  a  strained, 
hard  way.  "I  haven't  given  you  exactly  a 
square  deal,  old  man,  but  I'll  hustle  and  make 
up  for  lost  time!" 

A  wind  was  beginning  to  moan  in  the  spruce 
tops  again.  He  was  glad  of  that.  It  promised 
storm.  And  a  storm  would  cover  up  all  trails. 


VII 

THE  MADNESS   OP  PELLITER 

AfVAY  up  at  Fullerton  Point  amid  the  storm 
and  crash  of  the  arctic  gloom  Pelliter 
fought  himself  through  day  after  day  of  fever, 
waiting  for  MacVeigh.  At  first  he  had  been 
filled  with  hope.  That  first  glimpse  of  the 
sun  they  had  seen  through  the  little  window  on 
the  morning  that  Billy  left  for  Fort  Churchill 
had  come  just  in  time  to  keep  reason  from 
snapping  in  his  head.  For  three  days  after  that 
he  looked  through  the  window  at  the  same  hour 
and  prayed  meaningly  for  another  glimpse  of 
that  paradise  in  the  southern  sky.  But  the 
storm  through  which  Isobel  had  struggled 
across  the  Barren  gathered  over  his  head  and 
behind  him,  day  after  day  of  it,  rolling  and 
twisting  and  moaning  with  the  roar  of  the 
cracking  fields  of  ice,  bringing  back  once  more 
the  thick  death-gloom  of  the  arctic  night  that 
had  almost  driven  him  mad.  He  tried  to  think 
81 


ISOBEL 

only  of  Billy,  of  his  loyal  comrade's  race  into  the 
south,  and  of  the  precious  letters  he  would 
bring  back  to  him ;  and  he  kept  track  of  the  days 
by  making  pencil  marks  on  the  door  that  opened 
out  upon  the  gray  and  purple  desolation  of  the 
arctic  sea. 

At  last  there  came  the  day  when  he  gave  up 
hope.  He  believed  that  he  was  dying.  He 
counted  the  marks  on  the  door  and  found  that 
there  were  sixteen.  Just  that  many  days  ago 
Billy  had  set  off  with  the  dogs.  If  all  had  gone 
well  he  was  a  third  of  the  way  back,  and  within 
another  week  would  be  "home." 

"Pelliter's  thin,  fever-flushed  face  relaxed  into 
a  wan  smile  as  he  counted  the  pencil  marks 
again.  Long  before  that  week  was  ended  he 
figured  that  he  would  be  dead.  The  medicines 
— and  the  letters — would  come  too  late,  prob- 
ably four  or  five  days  too  late.  Straight  out 
from  his  last  mark  he  drew  a  long  line,  and  at  the 
end  of  it  added  in  a  scrawling,  almost  unintel- 
ligible, hand :  ' '  Dear  Billy,  I  guess  this  is  going 
to  be  my  last  day."  Then  he  staggered  from 
the  door  to  the  window. 

Out  there  was  what  was  killing  him — loneli- 
ness, a  maddening  desolation,  a  lifeless  world 
that  reached  for  hundreds  of  miles  farther  than 
82 


THE    MADNESS    OF    PELLITER 

his  eyes  could  see.  To  the  north  and  east  there 
was  nothing  but  ice,  piled-up  masses  and  grin- 
ning mountains  of  it,  white  at  first,  of  a  somber 
gray  farther  off,  and  then  purple  and  almost 
black.  There  came  to  him  now  the  low,  never- 
ceasing  thunder  of  the  undercurrents  fighting 
their  way  down  from  the  Arctic  Ocean,  broken 
now  and  then  by  a  growling  roar  as  the  giant 
forces  sent  a  crack,  like  a  great  knife,  through 
one  of  the  frozen  mountains.  He  had  listened 
to  those  sounds  for  five  months,  and  in  those 
five  months  he  had  heard  no  other  voice  but  his 
own  and  MacVeigh's  and  the  babble  of  an 
Eskimo.  Only  once  in  four  months  had  he  seen 
the  sun,  and  that  was  on  the  morning  that 
MacVeigh  went  south.  So  he  had  gone  half 
mad.  Others  had  gone  completely  mad  before 
him.  Through  the  window  his  eyes  rested  on 
the  five  rough  wooden  crosses  that  marked  their 
graves.  In  the  service  of  the  Royal  Northwest 
Mounted  Police  they  were  called  heroes.  And 
in  a  short  time  he,  Constable  Pelliter,  would  be 
numbered  among  them.  MacVeigh  would  send 
the  whole  story  down  to  her,  the  true  little 
girl  a  thousand  miles  south;  and  she  would 
always  remember  him — her  hero — and  his 
lonely  grave  at  Point  Fullerton,  the  northern- 
83 


TSOBEL 

most  point  of  the  Law..  But  she  would  never  see 
that  grave.  She  could  never  come  to  put 
flowers  on  it,  as  she  put  flowers  on  the  grave  of 
his  mother;  she  would  never  know  the  whole 
story,  not  a  half  of  it — his  terrible  longing  for  a 
sound  of  her  voice,  a  touch  of  her  tiand,  a  glimpse 
of  her  sweet  blue  eyes  before  he  died.  They 
were  to  be  married  in  August,  when  his  service 
in  the  Royal  Mounted  ended.  She  would  be 
waiting  for  him.  And  in  August — or  July — 
word  would  reach  her  that  he  had  died. 

With  a  dry  sob  he  turned  from  the  window 
to  the  rough  table  that  he  had  drawn  close  to  his 
bunk,  and  for  the  thousandth  time  he  held  before 
his  red  and  feverish  eyes  a  photograph.  It  was 
a  portrait  of  a  girl,  marvelously  beautiful  to 
Tommy  Pelliter,  with  soft  brown  hair  and  eyes 
that  seemed  always  to  talk  to  him  and  tell 
him  how  much  she  loved  him.  And  for  the 
thousandth  time  he  turned  the  picture  over 
and  read  the  words  she  had  written  on  the 
back: 

"My  own  dear  boy,  remember  that  I  am  always 
with  you,  always  thinking  of  you,  always  praying 
for  you;  and  I  know,  dear,  that  you  will  always  do 
what  you  would  do  if  I  were  at  your  side." 
84 


THE    MADNESS    OF    PELLITER 

4 '  Good  Lord !' '  groaned  Pelliter.  ' '  I  can't  die ! 
I  can't!  I've  got  to  live — to  see  her — " 

He  dropped  back  on  his  bunk  exhausted. 
The  fires  burned  in  his  head  again.  He  grew 
dizzy,  and  he  talked  to  her,  or  thought  he  was 
talking,  but  it  was  only  a  babble  of  incoherent 
sound  that  made  Kazan,  the  one-eyed  old 
Eskimo  dog,  lift  his  shaggy  head  and  sniff 
suspiciously.  Kazan  had  listened  to  Pelliter's 
deliriums  many  times  since  MacVeigh  had  left 
them  alone,  and  soon  he  dropped  his  muzzle 
between  his  forepaws  and  dozed  again.  A  long 
time  afterward  he  raised  his  head  once  more. 
Pelliter  was  quiet.  But  the  dog  sniffed,  went 
to  the  door,  whined  softly,  and  nervously  muz- 
zled the  sick  man's  thin  hand.  Then  he  settled 
back  on  his  haunches,  turned  his  nose  straight 
up,  and  from  his  throat  there  came  that  wailing, 
mourning  cry,  long-drawn  and  terrible,  with 
which  Indian  dogs  lament  before  the  tepees  of 
masters  who  are  newly  dead.  The  sound 
aroused  Pelliter.  He  sat  up  again,  and  he 
found  that  once  more  the  fire  and  the  pain  had 
gone  from  his  head. 

"Kazan,  Kazan,"  he  pleaded,  weakly,  "it 
isn't  time — yet!" 

Kazan  had  gone  to  the  window  that  looked  to 
85 


ISOBEL 

the -west,  and  stood  with  his  forefeet  on  the  sill. 
Pelliter  shivered. 

"Wolves  again,"  he  said,  "or  mebbe  a  fox." 
He  had  grown  into  that  habit  of  talking  to 
himself,  which  is  as  common  as  human  life  itself 
in  the  far  north,  where  one's  own  voice  is  often 
the  one  thing  that  breaks  a  killing  monotony. 
He  edged  his  way  to  the  window  as  he  spoke 
and  looked  out  with  Kazan.  Westward  there 
stretched  the  lifeless  Barren  illimitable  and 
void,  without  rock  or  bush  and  overhung  by  a 
sky  that  always  made  Pelliter  think  of  a  terrible 
picture  he  had  once  seen  of  Dore's  "Inferno." 
It  was  a  low,  thick  sky,  like  purple  and  blue 
granite,  always  threatening  to  pitch  itself  down 
in  terrific  avalanches,  and  between  the  earth 
and  this  sky  was  the  thin,  smothered  world 
which  MacVeigh  had  once  called  God's  insane 
asylum. 

Through  the  gloom  Kazan's  one  eye  and 
Pelliter's  feverish  vision  could  not  see  far,  but 
at  last  the  man  made  out  an  object  toiling  slowly 
toward  the  cabin.  At  first  he  thought  it  was  a 
fox,  and  then  a  wolf,  and  then,  as  it  loomed 
larger,  a  straying  caribou.  Kazan  whined. 
The  bristles  along  his  spine  rose  stiff  and  men- 
acing. Pelliter  stared  harder  and  harder,  with 
86 


THE    MADNESS    OF    PELLITER 

his  face  pressed  close  against  the  cold  glass  of 
the  window,  and  suddenly  he  gave  a  gasping  cry 
of  excitement.  It  was  a  man  who  was  toiling 
toward  the  cabin !  He  was  bent  almost  double, 
and  he  staggered  in  a  zigzag  fashion  as  he  ad- 
vanced. Pelliter  made  his  way  feebly  to  the 
door,  unbarred  it,  and  pushed  it  partly  open. 
Overcome  by  weakness  he  fell  back  then  on  the 
edge  of  his  bunk. 

It  seemed  an  age  before  he  heard  steps. 
They  were  slow  and  stumbling,  and  an  instant 
later  a  face  appeared  at  the  door.  It  was  a 
terrible  face,  overgrown  with  beard,  with  wild 
and  staring  eyes ;  but  it  was  a  white  man's  face. 
Pelliter  had  expected  an  Eskimo,  and  he  sprang 
to  his  feet  with  sudden  strength  as  the  stranger 
came  in. 

"Something  to  eat,  mate,  for  the  love  o'  God 
give  me  something  to  eat!" 

The  stranger  fell  in  a  heap  on  the  floor  and 
stared  up  at  him  with  the  ravenous  entreaty 
of  an  animal.  Pelliter's  first  move  was  to  get 
whisky,  and  the  other  drank  it  in  great  gulps. 
Then  he  dragged  himself  to  his  feet,  and  Pelliter 
sank  in  a  chair  beside  the  table. 

"I'm  sick,"  he  said.  "Sergeant  MacVeigh 
has  gone  to  Churchill,  and  I  guess  I'm  in  a  bad 

87 


ISOBEL 

way.  You'll  have  to  help  yourself.  There's 
meat — 'n'  bannock- 
Whisky  had  revived  the  new-comer.  He 
stared  at  Pelliter,  and  as  he  stared  he  grinned, 
ugly  yellow  teeth  leering  from  between  his 
matted  beard.  The  look  cleared  Pelliter's 
brain.  For  some  reason  which  he  could  not 
explain,  his  pistol  hand  fell  to  the  place  where 
he  usually  carried  his  holster.  Then  he  remem- 
bered that  his  service  revolver  was  under  the 
pillow. 

"Fever,"  said  the  sailor;  for  Pelliter  knew 
that  he  was  a  sailor. 

He  took  off  his  heavy  coat  and  tossed  it  on 
the  table.  Then  he  followed  Pelliter's  in- 
structions in  quest  of  food,  and  for  ten  minutes 
ate  ravenously.  Not  until  he  was  through  and 
seated  opposite  him  at  the  table  did  Pelliter 
speak. 

"Who  are  you,  and  where  in  Heaven's  name 
did  you  come  from?"  he  asked. 

"Blake — Jim  Blake's  my  name,  an'  I  come 
from  what  I  call  Starvation  Igloo  Inlet,  thirty 
miles  up  the  coast.  Five  months  ago  I  was 
left  a  hundred  miles  farther  up  to  take  care  of  a 
cache  for  the  whaler  John  B.  Sidney,  and  the 
cache  was  swept  away  by  an  overflow  of  ice. 
88 


THE    MADNESS    OF    PELLITER 

Then  we  struck  south,  hunting  and  starving, 
me  'n'  the  woman — " 

"The  woman!"  cried  Pelliter. 

"Eskimo  squaw,"  said  Blake,  producing  a 
black  pipe.  ' '  The  cap'n  bought  her  to  keep  me 
company — paid  four  sacks  of  flour  an'  a  knife  to 
her  husband  up  at  Wagner  Inlet.  Got  any 
tobacco?" 

Pelliter  rose  to  get  the  tobacco.  He  :was  sur- 
prised to  find  that  he  was  steadier  on  his  feet 
and  that  Blake's  words  were  clearing  his  brain. 
That  had  been  his  and  MacVeigh's  great  fight — 
the  fight  to  put  an  end  to  the  white  man's 
immoral  trade  in  Eskimo  women  and  girls,  and 
Blake  had  already  confessed  himself  a  criminal. 
Promise  of  action,  quick  action,  momentarily 
overcame  his  sickness.  He  went  back  with  the 
tobacco,  and  sat  down. 

"Where's  the  woman?"  he  asked. 

"Back  in  the  igloo,"  said  Blake,  filling  his 
pipe.  "We  killed  a  walrus  up  there  and  built 
an  icehouse.  The  meat's  gone.  She's  prob- 
ably gone  by  this  time."  He  laughed  coarsely 
across  at  Pelliter  as  he  lighted  his  pipe.  "It 
seems  good  to  get  into  a  white  man's  shack 
again." 

"She's  not  dead?"  insisted  Pelliter. 
89 


ISOBEL 

' '  Will  be— shortly , ' '  replied  Blake.  ' '  She  was 
so  weak  she  couldn't  walk  when  I  left.  But 
them  Eskimo  animals  die  hard,  'specially  the 
women." 

"Of  course  you're  going  back  for  her?" 

The  other  stared  for  a  moment  into  Pelli- 
ter's  flushed  face,  and  then  laughed  as  though 
he  had  just  heard  a  good  joke. 

"Not  on  your  life,  my  boy.  I  wouldn't  hike 
that  thirty  miles  again — an'  thirty  back — for 
all  the  Eskimo  women  up  at  Wagner." 

The  red  in  Pelliter's  eyes  grew  redder  as  he 
leaned  over  the  table. 

"See  here,"  he  said,  "you're  going  back — 
now!  Do  you  understand?  You're  going 
back!" 

Suddenly  he  stopped.  He  stared  at  Blake's 
coat,  and  with  a  swiftness  that  took  the  other 
by  surprise  he  reached  across  and  picked  some- 
thing from  it.  A  startled  cry  broke  from  his 
lips.  Between  his  fingers  he  held  a  single 
filament  of  hair.  It  was  nearly  a  foot  long,  and 
it  was  not  an  Eskimo  woman's  hair.  It  shone 
a  dull  gold  in  the  gray  light  that  came  through 
the  window.  He  raised  his  eyes,  terrible  in 
their  accusation  of  the  man  opposite  him. 

"You  He!"  he  said.  "She's  not  an  Eskimo!" 
90 


THE    MADNESS    OF    PELLITER 

Blake  had  half  risen,  his  great  hands  clutching 
the  ends  of  the  table,  his  brutal  face  thrust  for- 
ward, his  whole  body  in  an  attitude  that  sent 
Pelliter  back  out  of  his  reach.  He  was  not  an 
instant  too  soon.  With  an  oath  Blake  sent  the 
table  crashing  aside  and  sprang  upon  the  sick 
man. 

"I'll  kill  you!"  he  cried.  "I'll  kill  you,  an' 
put  you  where  I've  put  her,  'n'  when  your  pard 
comes  back  I'll — 

His  hands  caught  Pelliter  by  the  throat,  but 
not  before  there  had  come  from  between  the 
sick  man's  lips  a  cry  of  "Kazan!  Kazan!" 

With  a  wolfish  snarl  the  old  one-eyed  sledge- 
dog  sprang  upon  Blake,  and  the  three  fell  with 
a  crash  upon  Pelliter's  bunk.  For  an  instant 
Kazan's  attack  drew  one  of  Blake's  powerful 
hands  from  Pelliter's  throat,  and  as  he  turned 
to  strike  off  the  dog  Pelliter's  hand  groped  out 
under  his  flattened  pillow.  Blake's  murderous 
face  was  still  turned  when  he  drew  out  his  heavy 
service  revolver;  and  as  Blake  cut  at  Kazan 
with  a  long  sheath-knife  which  he  had  drawn 
from  his  belt  Pelliter  fired.  Blake's  grip  re- 
laxed. Without  a  groan  he  slipped  to  the  floor, 
and  Pelliter  staggered  back  to  his  feet.  Ka- 
zan's teeth  were  buried  in  Blake's  leg. 
7  9i 


"There,  there,  boy,"  said  Pelliter,  pulling  him 
away.  "That  was  a  close  one!" 

He  sat  down  and  looked  at  Blake.  He  knew 
that  the  man  was  dead.  Kazan  was  sniffing 
about  the  sailor's  head  with  stiffened  spines. 
And  then  a  ray  of  light  flashed  for  an  instant 
through  the  window.  It  was  the  sun — the 
second  time  that  Pelliter  had  seen  it  in  four 
months.  A  cry  of  joy  welled  up  from  his  heart. 
But  it  was  stopped  midway.  On  the  floor  close 
beside  Blake  something  glittered  in  the  fiery  ray, 
and  Pelliter  was  upon  his  knees  in  an  instant. 
It  was  the  short  golden  hair  he  had  snatched 
from  the  dead  man's  coat,  and  partly  covering 
it  was  the  picture  of  his  sweetheart  which  had 
fallen  when  the  table  was  overturned.  With 
the  photograph  in  one  hand  and  that  single 
thread  of  woman's  hair  between  the  fingers  of 
his  other  Pelliter  rose  slowly  to  his  feet  and 
faced  the  window.  The  sun  was  gone.  But  its 
coming  had  put  a  new  life  into  him.  He  turned 
joyously  to  Kazan. 

"That  means  something,  boy,"  he  said,  in  a 
low,  awed  voice,  "the  sun,  the  picture,  and  this! 
She  sent  it,  do  you  hear,  boy?  She  sent  it! 
I  can  almost  hear  her  voice,  an'  she's  telling  me 
to  go.  'Tommy,'  she's  saying,  'you  wouldn't 
92 


THE    MADNESS    OF    PELLITER 

be  a  man  if  you  didn't  go,  even  though  you 
know  you're  going  to  die  on  the  way.  You  can 
take  her  something  to  eat,'  she's  saying,  boy, 
'an'  you  can  just  as  well  die  in  an  igloo  as  here. 
You  can  leave  word  for  Billy,  an'  you  can  take 
her  grub  enough  to  last  until  he  conies,  an'  then 
he'll  bring  her  down  here,  an'  you'll  be  buried 
out  there  with  the  others  just  the  same.'  That's 
what  she's  saying,  Kazan,  so  we're  going!"  He 
looked  about  him  a  little  wildly.  "Straight  up 
the  coast,"  he  mumbled.  "Thirty  miles.  We 
might  make  it." 

He  began  rilling  a  pack  with  food.  Outside 
the  door  there  was  a  small  sledge,  and  after  he 
had  bundled  himself  in  his  traveling  -  clothes 
he  dragged  the  pack  to  the  sledge,  and  behind 
the  pack  tied  on  a  bundle  of  firewood,  a  lantern, 
blankets,  and  oil.  After  he  had  done  this  he 
wrote  a  few  lines  to  MacVeigh  and  pinned  the 
paper  to  the  door.  Then  he  hitched  old  Kazan 
to  the  sledge  and  started  off,  leaving  the  dead 
man  where  he  had  fallen. 

"It's  what  she'd  have  us  do,"  he  said  again 
to  Kazan.  "She  sure  would  have  us  do  this, 
Kazan.  God  bless  her  dear  little  heart !" 


VIII 

LITTLE    MYSTERY 

F)ELLITER  hung  close  to  the  ice-bound 
1  coast.  He  traveled  slowly,  leading  the 
way  for  Kazan,  who  strained  every  muscle  in 
his  aged  body  to  drag  the  sledge.  For  a  time 
the  excitement  of  what  had  occurred  gave 
Pelliter  a  strength  which  soon  began  to  ebb. 
But  his  old  weakness  did  not  entirely  return. 
He  found  that  his  worst  trouble  at  first  was  in 
his  eyes.  Weeks  of  fever  had  enfeebled  his 
vision  until  the  world  about  him  looked  new 
and  strange.  He  could  see  only  a  few  hundred 
paces  ahead,  and  beyond  this  little  circle  every- 
thing turned  gray  and  black.  Singularly  enough, 
it  struck  him  that  there  was  some  humor  as  well 
as  tragedy  in  the  situation,  that  there  was 
something  to  laugh  at  in  the  fact  that  Kazan  had 
but  one  eye,  and  that  he  was  nearly  blind.  He 
chuckled  to  himself  and  spoke  aloud  to  the  dog. 
' '  Makes  me  think  of  the  games  o'  hide-'n'-seek 
94 


LITTLE    MYSTERY 

we  used  to  play  when  we  were  kids,  boy,"  he 
said.  "She  used  to  tie  her  handkerchief  over 
my  eyes,  'n'  then  I'd  follow  her  all  through 
the  old  orchard,  and  when  I  caught  her  it  was 
a  part  of  the  game  she'd  have  to  let  me  kiss  her. 
Once  I  bumped  into  an  apple  tree — 

The  toe  of  his  snow-shoe  caught  in  an  ice- 
hummock  and  sent  him  face  downward  into  the 
snow.  He  picked  himself  up  and  went  on. 

"We  played  that  game  till  we  was  grown-ups, 
old  man,"  he  went  on.  ' '  Last  time  we  played  it 
she  was  seventeen.  Had  her  hair  in  a  big  brown 
braid,  an'  it  all  came  undone  so  that  when  I 
caught  her  an*  took  off  the  handkerchief  I  could 
just  see  her  eyes  an'  her  mouth  laughing  at  me, 
and  it  was  that  time  I  hugged  her  up  closer  than 
ever  and  told  her  I  was  going  out  to  make  a 
home  for  us.  Then  I  came  up  here." 

He  stopped  and  rubbed  his  eyes ;  and  for  an 
hour  after  that,  as  he  plodded  onward,  he  mum- 
bled things  which  neither  Kazan  nor  any  other 
living  thing  could  have  understood.  But  what- 
ever delirium  found  its  way  into  his  voice,  the 
fighting  spark  in  his  brain  remained  sane.  The 
igloo  and  the  starving  woman  whom  Blake  had 
abandoned  formed  the  one  living  picture  which 
he  did  not  for  a  moment  forget.  He  must  find 

95 


ISOBEL 

the  igloo,  and  the  igloo  was  close  to  the  sea.  He 
could  not  miss  it — if  he  lived  long  enough  to 
travel  thirty  miles.  It  did  not  occur  to  him 
that  Blake  might  have  lied — that  the  igloo  was 
farther  than  he  had  said,  or  perhaps  much 
nearer. 

It  was  two  o'clock  when  he  stopped  to  make 
tea.  He  figured  that  he  had  traveled  at  least 
eighteen  miles;  the  fact  was  he  had  gone  but  a 
little  over  half  that  distance.  He  was  not  hun- 
gry, and  ate  nothing,  but  he  fed  Kazan  heartily 
of  meat.  The  hot  tea,  strengthened  with  a 
little  whisky,  revived  him  for  the  time  more 
than  food  would  have  done. 

"Twelve  miles  more  at  the  most,"  he  said  to 
Kazan.  "We'll  make  it.  Thank  God,  we'll 
make  it!" 

If  his  eyes  had  been  better  he  would  have  seen 
and  recognized  the  huge  snow-covered  rock 
called  the  Blind  Eskimo,  which  was  just  nine 
miles  from  the  cabin.  As  it  was,  he  went  on, 
filled  with  hope.  There  were  sharper  pains  in 
his  head  now,  and  his  legs  dragged  wearily. 
Day  ended  at  a  little  after  two,  but  at  this 
season  there  was  not  much  change  in  light  and 
darkness,  and  Pelliter  scarcely  noted  the  dif- 
ference. The  time  came  when  the  picture  of 
96 


LITTLE   MYSTERY 

the  igloo  and  the  dying  woman  came  and  went 
fitfully  in  his  brain.  There  were  dark  spaces. 
The  fighting  spark  was  slowly  giving  way,  and 
at  last  Pelliter  dropped  upon  the  sledge. 

"Go  on,  Kazan!"  he  cried,  weakly.  "Mush 
it — go  on!" 

Kazan  tugged,  with  gaping  jaws;  and  Pelli- 
ter's  head  dropped  upon  the  food-filled  pack. 

What  Kazan  heard  was  a  groan.  He  stopped 
and  looked  back,  whining  softly.  For  a  time  he 
sat  on  his  haunches,  sniffing  a  strange  thing 
which  had  come  to  him  in  the  air.  Then  he 
went  on,  straining  a  little  faster  at  the  sledge 
and  still  whining.  If  Pelliter  had  been  con- 
scious he  would  have  urged  him  straight  ahead. 
But  old  Kazan  turned  away  from  the  sea. 
Twice  in  the  next  ten  minutes  he  stopped  and 
sniffed  the  air,  and  each  time  he  changed  his 
course  a  little.  Half  an  hour  later  he  came  to 
a  white  mound  that  rose  up  out  of  the  level 
waste  of  snow,  and  then  he  settled  himself  back 
on  his  haunches,  lifted  his  shaggy  head  to  the 
dark  night  sky,  and  for  the  second  time  that 
day  he  sent  forth  the  weird,  wailing,  mourning 
death-howl. 

It  aroused  Pelliter.  He  sat  up,  rubbed  his 
eyes,  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  saw  the  mound 

97 


ISOBEL 

a  dozen  paces  away.  Rest  had  cleared  his 
brain  again.  He  knew  that  it  was  an  igloo. 
He  could  make  out  the  door,  and  he  caught  up 
his  lantern  and  stumbled  toward  it.  He  wasted 
half  a  dozen  matches  before  he  could  make  a 
light.  Then  he  crawled  in,  with  Kazan  still 
in  his  traces  close  at  his  heels. 

There  was  a  musty,  uncomfortable  odor  in 
the  snow-house.  And  there  was  no  sound,  no 
movement.  The  lantern  lighted  up  the  small 
interior,  and  on  the  floor  Pelliter  made  out  a 
heap  of  blankets  and  a  bearskin.  There  was 
no  life,  and  instinctively  he  turned  his  eyes  down 
to  Kazan.  The  dog's  head  was  stretched  out 
toward  the  blankets,  his  ears  were  alert,  his  eyes 
burned  fiercely,  and  a  low,  whining  growl  rum- 
bled in  his  throat. 

He  looked  at  the  blankets  again,  moved 
slowly  toward  them.  He  pulled  back  the  bear- 
skin and  found  what  Blake  had  told  him  he 
would T  find — a  woman.  For  a  moment  he 
stared,  and  then  a  low  cry  broke  from  his  lips 
as  he  fell  upon  his  knees.  Blake  had  not  lied, 
for  it  was  an  Eskimo  woman.  She  was  dead. 
She  had  not  died  of  starvation.  Blake  had 
killed  her! 

He  rose  to  his  feet  again  and  looked  about 
98 


LITTLE    MYSTERY 

him.  After  all,  did  that  golden  hair,  that  white 
woman's  hair,  mean  nothing?  What  was  that? 
He  sprang  back  toward  Kazan,  his  weakened 
nerves  shattered  by  a  sound  and  a  movement 
from  the  farthest  and  darkest  part  of  the  igloo. 
Kazan  tugged  at  his  traces,  panting  and  whin- 
ing, held  back  by  the  sledge  wedged  in  the  door. 
The  sound  came  again,  a  human,  wailing,  sob- 
bing cry. 

With  his  lantern  in  his  hand  Pelliter  darted 
across  to  it.  There  was  another  roll  of  blankets 
on  the  floor,  and  as  he  looked  he  saw  the 
bundle  move.  It  took  him  but  an  instant  to 
drop  beside  it,  as  he  had  dropped  beside  the 
other,  and  as  he  drew  back  the  damp  and  partly 
frozen  covering  his  heart  leaped  up  and  choked 
him.  The  lantern  light  fell  full  upon  the  thin, 
pale  face  and  golden  head  of  a  little  child.  A 
pair  of  big  frightened  eyes  were  staring  up  at 
him;  and  as  he  knelt  there,  powerless  to  move  or 
speak  in  the  face  of  this  miracle,  the  eyes 
closed  again,  and  there  came  again  the  wailing, 
hungry  note  which  Kazan  had  first  heard  as  they 
approached  the  igloo.  Pelliter  flung  back  the 
blanket  and  caught  the  child  in  his  arms. 

"It's  a  girl — a  little  girl!"  he  almost  shouted 
to  Kazan.  "Quick,  boy — go  back — get  out!" 

99 


ISOBEL 

He  laid  the  child  upon  the  other  blankets,  and 
then  thrust  back  Kazan.  He  seemed  suddenly 
possessed  of  the  strength  of  two  men  as  he  tore 
at  his  own  blankets  and  dumped  the  contents 
of  the  pack  out  upon  the  snow.  "She  sent  us, 
boy,"  he  cried,  his  breath  coming  in  sobbing 
gasps.  "Where's  the  milk  'n'  the  stove — 

In  ten  seconds  more  he  was  back  in  the  igloo 
with  a  can  of  condensed  cream,  a  pan,  and  the 
alcohol  lamp.  His  fingers  trembled  so  that  he 
had  difficulty  in  lighting  the  wick,  and  as  he  cut 
open  the  can  with  his  knife  he  saw  the  child's 
eyes  flutter  wide  for  an  instant  and  then  close 
again. 

"Just  a  minute,  a  half  minute,"  he  pleaded, 
pouring  the  cream  into  the  pan.  "Hungry,  eh, 
little  one?  Hungry?  Starving?"  He  held  the 
pan  close  down  over  the  blue  flame  and  gazed 
terrified  at  the  white  little  face  near  him.  Its 
thinness  and  quiet  frightened  him.  He  thrust 
his  finger  into  the  cream  and  found  it  warm. 

"A  cup,  Kazan !  Why  didn't  I  bring  a  cup?" 
He  darted  out  again  and  returned  with  a  tin 
basin.  In  another  moment  the  child  was  in  his 
arms,  and  he  forced  the  first  few  drops  of  cream 
between  her  lips.  Her  eyes  shot  open.  Life 
seemed  to  spring  into  her  little  body;  and  she 
100 


LITTLE   MYSTERY 

drank  with  a  loud  noise,  one  of  her  tiny  hands 
gripping  him  by  the  wrist.  The  touch,  the 
sound,  the  feel  of  life  against  him  thrilled 
Pelliter.  He  gave  her  half  of  what  the  basin 
contained,  and  then  wrapped  her  up  warmly 
in  his  thick  service  blanket,  so  that  all  of  her  was 
hidden  but  her  face  and  her  tangled  golden  hair. 
He  held  her  for  a  moment  close  to  the  lantern. 
She  was  looking  at  him  now,  wide-eyed  and 
wondering,  but  not  frightened. 

"God  bless  your  little  soul!"  he  exclaimed, 
his  amazement  growing.  "Who  are  you,  'n' 
where'd  you  come  from  ?  You  ain't  more'n  three 
years  old,  if  you're  an  hour.  Where's  your 
mama  'n'  your  papa?"  He  placed  her  back  on 
the  blankets.  "Now,  a  fire,  Kazan!"  he  said. 

He  held  the  lantern  above  his  head  and  found 
the  narrow  vent  through  the  snow-and-ice  wall 
which  Blake  had  made  for  the  escape  of  smoke. 
Then  he  went  outside  for  the  fuel,  freeing  Kazan 
on  the  way.  In  a  few  minutes  more  a  small 
bright  blaze  of  almost  smokeless  larchwood  was 
lighting  up  and  warming  the  interior  of  the  igloo. 
To  his  surprise,  Pelliter  found  the  child  asleep 
when  he  went  to  her  again.  He  moved  her 
gently  and  carried  the  dead  body  of  the  little 
Eskimo  woman  through  the  opening  and  half 
101 


ISOBEL 

a  hundred  paces  from  the  igloo.  Not  until  then 
did  he  stop  to  marvel  at  the  strength  which  had 
returned  to  him.  He  stretched  his  arms  above 
his  head  and  breathed  deeply  of  the  cold  air. 
It  seemed  as  though  something  had  loosened  in- 
side of  him,  that  a  crushing  weight  had  lifted 
itself  from  his  eyes.  Kazan  had  followed  him, 
and  he  stared  down  at  the  dog. 

"It's  gone,  Kazan,"  he  cried,  in  a  low,  half- 
credulous  voice.  "I  don't  feel  —  sick  —  any 
more.  It's  her — 

He  turned  back  to  the  igloo.  The  lantern  and 
the  fireimade  a  cheerful  glow  inside,  and  it  was 
growing  warm.  He  threw  off  his  heavy  coat, 
drew  the  bearskin  in  front  of  the  fire,  and  sat 
down  with  the  child  in  his  arms.  She  still  slept. 
Like  a  starving  man  Pelliter  stared  down  upon 
the  little  thin  face.  Gently  his  rough  fingers 
stroked  back  the  golden  curls.  He  smiled.  A 
light  came  into  his  eyes.  His  head  bent  lower 
and  lower,  slowly  and  a  little  fearfully.  At  last 
his  lips  touched  the  child's  cheek.  And  then 
hisiown  rough  grizzled  face,  toughened  by  wind 
and  storm  and  intense  cold,  nestled  against  the 
little  face  of  this  new  and  mysterious  life  he  had 
found  at  the  top  of  the  world. 

Kazan  listened  for  a  time,  squatted  on  his 

IO2 


LITTLE   MYSTERY 

haunches.  Then  he  curled  himself  near  the 
fire  and  slept.  For  a  long  time  Pelliter  sat 
rocking  gently  back  and  forth,  thrilled  by  a 
happiness  that  was  growing  deeper  and  stronger 
in  him  each  instant.  He  could  feel  the  tiny  beat 
of  the  little  one's  heart  against  his  breast;  he 
could  feel  her  breath  against  his  cheek;  one  of 
her  little  hands  had  gripped  him  by  his  thumb. 

A  hundred  questions  ran  through  his  mind 
now.  Who  was  this  little  abandoned  mite? 
Who  were  her  father  and  her  mother,  and  where 
were  they?  How  had  she  come  to  be  with  the 
Eskimo  woman  and  Blake?  Blake  was  not  her 
father ;  the  Eskimo  woman  was  not  her  mother. 
What  tragedy  had  placed  her  here?  Somehow 
he  was  conscious  of  a  sensation  of  joy  as  he 
reasoned  that  he  would  never  be  able  to  answer 
these  questions.  She  belonged  to  him.  He  had 
found  her.  No  one  would  ever  come  to  dis- 
possess him.  Without  awakening  her,  he  thrust 
a  hand  into  his  breast  pocket  and  drew  out  the 
photograph  of  the  sweet-faced  girl  who  was  going 
to  be  his  wife.  It  did  not  occur  to  him  now  that 
he  might  die.  The  old  fear  and  the  old  sickness 
were  gone.  He  knew  that  he  was  going  to  live. 

"You,"  he  breathed,  softly,  "you  did  it,  and 
I  know  you'll  be  glad  when  I  bring  her  down  to 
103 


ISOBEL 

you."  And  then  to  the  little  sleeping  girl: 
"And  if  you  ain't  got  a  name  I  guess  I'll  have 
to  call  you  Mystery — how  is  that? — my  Little 
Mystery." 

When  he  looked  from  the  picture  again  Little 
Mystery's  eyes  were  open  and  gazing  up  at  him. 
He  dropped  the  picture  and  made  a  lunge  for 
the  pan  of  cream  warming  before  the  fire.  The 
child  drank  as  hungrily  as  before,  with  Pelliter 
babbling  incoherent  nonsense  into  her  baby 
ears.  When  she  had  done  he  picked  up  the 
photograph,  with  a  sudden  and  foolish  inspira- 
tion that  she  might  understand. 

"Looky,"  he  cried.     "Pretty—" 

To  his  astonishment  and  joy,  Little  Mystery 
put  out  a  hand  and  placed  the  tip  of  her  tiny 
forefinger  on  the  girl's  face.  Then  she  looked 
up  into  Pelliter's  eyes. 

"Mama,"  she  lisped. 

Pelliter  tried  to  speak,  but  something  rose 
like  a  knot  in  his  throat  and  choked  him.  A  fire 
leaped  all  at  once  through  his  body;  the  joy  of 
that  one  word  blinded  him  with  hot  tears. 
When  he  spoke  at  last  his  voice  was  broken,  like 
a  sobbing  woman's. 

"That's  it!"  he  said.     "You're  right,  little 
one.    She's  your  mama!" 
104 


IX 

THE    SECRET   OP   THE   DEAD 

ON  the  eighth  day  after  Pelliter  found  the 
Eskimo  igloo  Billy  MacVeigh  came  up 
through  a  gray  dawn  with  his  footsore  dogs,  his 
letters,  and  his  medicines.  He  had  traveled  all 
of  the  preceding  night,  and  his  feet  dragged 
heavily.  It  was  with  a  feeling  of  fear  that  he  at 
last  saw  the  black  cliffs  of  Fullerton  rising  above 
the  ice.  He  dreaded  the  first  opening  of  the 
cabin  door.  What  would  he  find  ?  During  the 
past  forty-eight  hours  he  had  figured  on  Pelli- 
ter's  chances,  and  they  were  two  to  one  that  he 
would  find  his  partner  dead  in  his  bunk. 

And  if  not,  if  Pelliter  still  lived,  what  a  tale 
there  would  be  to  tell  the  sick  man!  For  he 
knew  that  he  must  tell  some  one,  and  Pelliter 
would  keep  his  secret.  And  he  would  under- 
stand. Day  after  day,  as  he  had  hurried 
straight  into  the  north,  Billy's  loneliness  and 
heartbreak  weighed  more  and  more  heavily 
105 


ISOBEL 

upon  him.  He  tried  to  force  Isobel  out  of  his 
thoughts,  but  it  was  impossible.  A  thousand 
visions  of  her  rose  before  him,  and  each  mile 
that  he  drew  himself  farther  away  from  her 
seemed  only  to  add  to  the  nearness  of  her  spirit 
at  his  side  and  to  the  strange  pain  in  his  heart 
that  rose  now  and  then  to  his  lips  in  sobbing 
breaths  that  he  fought  with  himself  to  stifle. 
And  yet,  with  his  own  grief  and  hopelessness,  he 
experienced  more  and  more  each  day  a  com- 
pensating joy.  It  was  the  joy  of  knowing  that 
he  had  given  back  life  and  hope  to  Isobel  and 
her  husband.  Each  day  he  figured  their 
progress  along  with  his  own.  From  the  Eskimo 
village  he  had  sent  a  messenger  back  to  Churchill 
with  a  long  report  for  the  officer  in  command 
there,  and  in  that  report  he  had  lied.  He  re- 
ported Scottie  Deane  as  having  died  of  the  in- 
jury he  had  received  in  the  snow-slide.  Not  for 
a  moment  had  he  regretted  the  falsehood.  He 
also  promised  to  report  at  Churchill  to  testify 
against  Bucky  Smith  as  soon  as  he  reached 
Pelliter  and  put  him  on  his  feet. 

On  this  last  day,  as  he  saw  the  towering  cliffs 

of  Fullerton  ahead  of  him,  he  wondered  how 

much  he  would  tell  to  Pelliter  if  he  found  him 

alive.     Mentally    he    rehearsed    the    amazing 

1 06 


THE    SECRET   OF   THE    DEAD 

story  of  what  came  to  him  that  night  on  the 
Barren,  of  the  dogs  coming  across  the  snow,  the 
great,  dark,  frightened  eyes  of  the  woman,  and 
the  long,  narrow  box  on  the  sledge.  He  would 
tell  Pelliter  all  that.  He  would  tell  how  he  had 
made  a  camp  for  her  that  night,  and  how,  later, 
he  had  told  her  that  he  loved  her  and  had  begged 
one  kiss.  And  then  the  disclosures  of  the  morn- 
ing, the  deserted  tent,  the  empty  box,  the  little 
note  from  Isobel,  and  the  revelation  that  the  box 
had  contained  the  living  body  of  the  man  for 
whom  he  and  Pelliter  had  patrolled  this  deso- 
late country  for  two  thousand  miles.  But 
would  he  tell  the  truth  of  what  had  happened 
after  that? 

He  quickened  his  tired  pace  as  the  dogs 
climbed  up  from  the  ice  of  the  Bay  to  the  sloping 
ridge,  and  stared  hard  ahead  of  him.  The 
dogs  tugged  harder  as  the  smell  of  home  entered 
their  nostrils.  At  last  the  roof  of  the  cabin 
came  in  view.  MacVeigh's  bloodshot  eyes  were 
like  an  animal's  in  their  eagerness. 

"Pelly,  old  boy,"  he  gasped  to  himself. 
"Pelly— " 

He  stared  harder.  And  then  he  spoke  a  low 
word  to  the  dogs  and  stopped.  He  wiped  his 
face.  A  deep  breath  of  relief  fell  from  his  lips. 
8  107 


ISOBEL 

Straight  up  from  the  chimney  of  the  cabin 
there  rose  a  thick  column  of  smoke ! 

He  came  up  to  the  door  of  the  cabin  quietly, 
wondering  why  Pelliter  did  not  see  him  or  hear 
the  three  or  four  sharp  yelps  the  dogs  had 
given.  He  twisted  off  his  snow-shoes,  chuck- 
ling as  he  thought  of  the  surprise  he  would  give 
his  mate.  His  hand  was  on  the  door  latch  when 
he  stopped.  The  smile  left  his  lips.  Startled 
wonderment  filled  his  face  as  he  bent  close  to 
the  door  and  listened,  and  for  a  moment  his 
heart  throbbed  with  a  terrible  fear.  He  had 
returned  too  late — perhaps  a  day — two  days. 
Pelliter  had  gone  mad!  He  could  hear  him 
raving  inside,  filling  the  cabin  with  a  laughter 
that  sent  a  chill  of  horror  through  his  veins. 
Mad !  A  sob  broke  from  his  lips,  and  he  turned 
his  face  up  to  the  gray  sky.  And  then  the 
laughter  turned  to  song.  It  was  the  sweet  love 
song  which  Pelliter  had  told  him  that  the  girl 
down  south  used  to  sing  to  him  when  they  were 
alone  out  under  the  stars.  Suddenly  it  broke 
off  short,  and  in  its  place  he  heard  another  sound. 
With  a  cry  he  opened  the  door  and  burst  in. 

"My  God!"  he  cried.     " Pelly— Pelly— " 

Pelliter  was  on  his  knees  in  the  middle  of  the 
floor.  But  it  was  not  the  look  of  wonderment 
108 


THE    SECRET   OF   THE    DEAD 

and  joy  in  his  face  that  Billy  saw  first.  He 
stared  at  the  little  golden-haired  creature  on  the 
floor  in  front  of  him.  He  had  traveled  hard, 
almost  day  and  night,  and  for  an  instant  it 
flashed  upon  him  that  what  he  saw  was  not  real. 
Before  he  could  move  or  speak  again  Pelliter 
was  on  his  feet,  wringing  his  hands  and  almost 
crying  in  his  gladness.  There  was  no  sign  of 
fever  or  madness  in  his  face  now.  Like  one  in  a 
dream  Billy  heard  what  he  said. 

"God  bless  you,  Billy!  I'm  glad  you've 
come!"  he  cried.  "We've  been  waiting  'n' 
watching,  and  not  more'n  a  minute  ago  we  were 
at  the  window  looking  along  the  edge  of  the 
Bay  through  the  binoculars.  You  must  have 
been  under  the  ridge.  My  God !  A  little  while 
ago  I  thought  I  was  dying — I  thought  I  was 
alone  in  the  world — alone — alone.  But  look — 
look,  Billy,  I've  got  a  fam'ly!" 

Little  Mystery  had  climbed  to  her  feet.  She 
was  looking  at  Billy  wonderingly,  her  golden 
curls  tousled  about  her  pretty  face,  and  grip- 
ping two  or  three  of  Pelliter's  old  letters  in  her 
tiny  hand.  And  then  she  smiled  at  Billy  and 
held  out  the  letters  to  him.  In  an  instant  he 
had  dropped  Pelliter's  hands  and  caught  her 
up  in  his  arms. 

109 


ISOBEL 

"I've  got  letters  for  you  in  my  pocket, 
Pelly,"  he  gasped.  "But — first — you've  got  to 
tell  me  who  she  is  and  where  you  got  her— 

Briefly  Pelliter  told  of  Blake's  visit,  the  fight, 
and  of  the  finding  of  Little  Mystery. 

"I'd  have  died  if  it  hadn't  been  for  her, 
Billy,"  he  finished.  "She  brought  me  back  to 
life.  But  I  don't  know  who  she  is  or  where  she 
came  from.  There  wasn't  anything  in  his 
pockets  or  in  the  igloo  to  tell.  I  buried  him 
out  there — shallow — so  you  could  take  a  look 
when  you  came  back." 

He  snatched  like  a  starving  man  for  food  at 
the  letters  MacVeigh  pulled  from  his  pocket. 
While  he  read  Billy  sat  down  with  Little 
Mystery  on  his  knees.  She  laughed  and  put 
her  warm  little  hands  up  to  his  rough  face. 
Her  eyes  were  blue,  like  Isobel's;  and  suddenly 
he  crushed  his  face  close  down  against  her  soft 
curls  and  held  her  so  close  to  him  that  for  a  mo- 
ment she  was  frightened.  A  little  later  Pelli- 
ter looked  up.  His  eyes  shone,  his  thin  face 
was  radiant  with  joy. 

"God  bless  the  sweetest  little  girl  in  the 

world,   Billy!"    he  whispered,   huskily.     "She 

says  she's  lonely  for  me.     She  tells  me  to  hurry 

— hurry  down  there  to  her.     She  says  that  if  I 

no 


THE    SECRET   OF   THE    DEAD 

don't  come  soon  she'll  come  up  to  me!    Read 
'em,  Billy!" 

He  looked  in  astonishment  at  the  change 
which  he  saw  in  MacVeigh's  face.  Billy  ac- 
cepted the  letters  mechanically  and  placed  them 
on  the  edge  of  the  bunk  near  which  he  was 
sitting. 

4 '  I'll  read  them — after  a  while,"  he  said,  slowly. 

Little  Mystery  clambered  from  his  knee  and 
ran  to  Pelliter.  Billy  was  staring  straight  into 
the  other's  face. 

4 'You're  sure  you've  told  me  everything, 
Pelly?  There  wasn't  anything  in  his  pockets? 
You  searched  well?" 

44 Yes.     There  was  nothing." 

44  But — you  were  sick — " 

4 'That's  why  I  buried  him  shallow,"  inter- 
rupted Pelliter.  44He's  close  to  the  last  cross, 
just  under  the  ice  and  snow.  I  wanted  you  to 
look — for  yourself." 

Billy  rose  to  his  feet.  He  took  Little  Mys- 
tery in  his  arms  again  and  looked  closely  in  her 
face.  There  was  a  strange  look  in  his  eyes. 
She  laughed  at  him,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  no- 
tice it.  And  then  he  held  her  out  to  Pelliter. 

44  Pelly,  did  you  ever — ever  notice  eyes — very 
closely  ?"  he  asked.     4 'Blue  eyes ?" 
in 


ISOBEL 

Pelliter  stared  at  him  amazed. 

"My  Jeanne  has  blue  eyes — 

"And  have  they  little  brown  dots  in  them 
like  a  wood  violet?" 

"No-o-o— " 

"They're  blue,  just  blue,  ain't  they?" 

"Yes." 

"And  I  suppose  most  all  blue  eyes  are  just 
blue,  without  the  little  brown  spots.  Wouldn't 
you  think  so?" 

"What  in  Heaven's  name  are  you  driving 
at?"  demanded  Pelliter. 

"I  just  wanted  you  to  notice  that  her  eyes 
have  little  brown  spots  in  them,"  replied  Billy. 
"I've  only  seen  one  other  pair  of  eyes — just  like 
hers."  He  turned  toward  the  door.  "I'm  go- 
ing out  to  care  for  the  dogs  and  dig  up  Blake," 
he  added.  "I  can't  rest  until  I've  seen  him." 

Pelliter  placed  Little  Mystery  on  her  feet. 

"I'll  see  to  the  dogs,"  he  said.  "But  I  don't 
want  to  look  at  Blake  again." 

The  two  men  went  out,  and  while  Pelliter 
led  the  dogs  to  a  lean-to  behind  the  cabin  Billy 
began  to  work  with  an  ax  and  spade  at  the  spot 
his  comrade  had  pointed  out  to  him.  Ten 
minutes  later  he  came  to  Blake.  An  excitement 
which  he  had  tried  to  hide  from  Pelliter  over- 

113 


THE    SECRET   OF   THE    DEAD 

came  his  sense  of  horror  as  he  dragged  out  the 
stiff  and  frozen  corpse  of  the  man.  It  was  a 
terrible  picture  that  the  dead  man  made,  with 
his  coarse  bearded  face  turned  up  to  the  sky  and 
his  teeth  still  snarling  as  they  had  snarled  on  the 
day  he  died.  Billy  knew  most  men  who  had 
come  into  the  north  above  Churchill,  but  he  had 
never  looked  upon  Blake  before.  It  was  prob- 
able that  the  dead  man  had  told  a  part  of  the 
truth,  and  that  he  was  a  sailor  left  on  the  upper 
coast  by  some  whaler.  He  shivered  as  he  began 
going  through  his  pockets.  Each  moment 
added  to  his  disappointment.  He  found  a  few 
things — a  knife,  two  keys,  several  coins,  a  fire- 
flint,  and  other  articles — but  there  was  no  letter 
or  writing  of  any  kind,  and  that  was  what  he  had 
hoped  to  find.  There  was  nothing  that  might 
solve  the  mystery  of  the  miracle  that  had 
descended  upon  them.  He  rolled  the  dead  man 
into  the  grave,  covered  him  over,  and  went  into 
the  cabin. 

Pelliter  was  in  his  usual  place — on  his  hands 
and  knees,  with  Little  Mystery  astride  his  back. 
He  paused  in  a  mad  race  across  the  cabin  floor 
and  looked  up  with  inquiring  eyes.  The  little 
girl  held  up  her  arms,  and  MacVeigh  tossed  her 
half-way  to  the  ceiling  and  then  hugged  her 
"3 


ISOBEL 

golden  head  close  up  to  his  chilled  face.  Pelli- 
ter  jumped  to  his  feet ;  his  face  grew  serious  as 
Billy  looked  at  him  over  the  child's  tousled  curls. 

"I  found  nothing — absolutely  nothing  of  any 
account,"  he  said. 

He  placed  Little  Mystery  on  one  of  the  bunks 
and  faced  the  other  with  a  puzzled  look  in  his 
eyes. 

"I  wish  you  hadn't  been  in  a  fever  on  that 
day  of  the  fight,  Pelly,"  he  said.  ' '  He  must  have 
said  something — something  that  would  give  us  a 
clue." 

"Mebbe  he  did,  Billy,"  replied  Pelliter,  look- 
ing with  a  shiver  at  the  few  things  MacVeigh 
had  placed  on  the  cabin  table.  "But  there's 
no  use  worrying  any  more  about  it.  It  ain't  in 
reason  that  she's  got  any  people  up  here,  six 
hundred  miles  from  the  shack  of  a  white  man 
that  'd  own  a  little  beauty  like  her.  She's  mine. 
I  found  her.  She's  mine  to  keep." 

He  sat  down  at  the  table,  and  MacVeigh  sat 
down  opposite  him,  smiling  sympathetically 
into  Pelliter's  eyes. 

"I  know  you  want  her — want  her  bad,  Pelly," 

he  said.     "And  I  know  the  girl  would  love  her. 

But  she's  got  people — somewhere,  and  it's  our 

duty  to  find  'em.     She  didn't  drop  out  of  a  bal- 

114 


T;HE    SECRET   OF   THE    DEAD 

loon,  Pelly.     Do  you  suppose — the  dead  man — 
might  be  her  father?" 

It  was  the  first  time  he  had  asked  this  ques- 
tion, and  he  noted  the  other's  sudden  shudder  of 
revulsion. 

"I've  thought  of  that.  But  it  can't  be.  He 
was  a  beast,  and  she — she's  a  little  angel. 
Billy,  her  mother  must  have  been  beautiful. 
And  that's  what  made  me  guess — fear — " 
.  Pelliter  wiped  his  face  uneasily,  and  the  two 
young  men  stared  into  each  other's  eyes. 
MacVeigh  leaned  forward,  waiting. 

"I  figured  it  all  out  last  night,  lying  awake 
there  in  my  bunk,"  continued  Pelliter,  "and  as 
the  second  best  friend  I  have  on  earth  I  want  to 
ask  you  not  to  go  any  farther,  Billy.  She's  mine. 
My  Jeanne,  down  there,  will  love  her  like  a  real 
mother,  and  we'll  bring  her  up  right.  But  if 
you  go  on,  Billy,  you'll  find  something  un- 
pleasant— I — I — swear  you  will!" 

"You  know— " 

"  I ' ve  guessed, ' '  interrupted  the  other.  ' '  Billy, 
sometimes  a  beast — a  man  beast — holds  an  at- 
traction for  a  woman,  and  Blake  was  that  sort 
of  a  beast.  You  remember — two  years  ago — a 
sailor  ran  away  with  the  wife  of  a  whaler's 
captain  away  up  at  Narwhale  Inlet.  Well — " 
"5 


ISOBEL 

Again  the  two  men  stared  silently  at  each 
other.  MacVeigh  turned  slowly  toward  the 
child.  She  had  fallen  asleep,  and  he  could  see 
the  dull  shimmer  of  her  golden  curls  as  they  lay 
scattered  over  Pelliter's  pillow. 

"Poor  little  devil!"  he  exclaimed,  softly. 

"I  believe  that  woman  was  Little  Mystery's 
mother,"  Pelliter  went  on.  "She  couldn't  bear 
to  leave  the  little  kid  when  she  went  with  Blake, 
so  she  took  her  along.  Some  women  do  that. 
And  after  a  time  she  died.  Then  Blake  took 
up  with  an  Eskimo  woman.  You  know  what 
happened  after  that.  We  don't  want  Little 
Mystery  to  know  all  this  when  she  grows  up. 
It's  better  not.  She's  too  little  to  remember, 
ain't  she?  She  won't  ever  know." 

"I  remember  the  ship,"  said  Billy,  not  taking 
his  eyes  off  Little  Mystery.  ' '  She  was  the  Silver 
Seal.  Her  captain's  name  was  Thompson." 

He  did  not  look  at  Pelliter,  but  he  could  feel 
the  quick,  tense  stiffening  of  the  other's  body. 
There  was  a  moment's  silence.  Then  Pelliter 
spoke  in  a  low,  unnatural  voice. 

"Billy,  you  ain't  going  to  hunt  him  up,  are 
you  ?    That  wouldn't  be  fair  to  me  or  to  the  kid. 
My  Jeanne  '11  love  her,  an'  mebbe — mebbe  some 
day  your  kid  '11  come  along  an'  marry  her — " 
116 


THE   SECRET   OF   THE    DEAD 

MacVeigh  rose  to  his  feet.  Pelliter  did  not 
see  the  sudden  look  of  grief  that  shot  into  his 
face. 

"What  do  you  say,  Billy?" 

"Think  it  over,  Pelly,"  came  back  Billy's 
voice,  huskily.  "Think  it  over.  I  don't  want 
to  hurt  you,  and  I  know  you  think  a  lot  of  her, 
but — think  it  over.  You  wouldn't  rob  her 
father,  would  you?  An'  she's  all  he's  got  left 
of  the  woman.  Think  it  over,  Pelly,  good  'n' 
hard.  I'm  going  to  bed  an'  sleep  a  week!" 


X 

IN   DEFIANCE   OF   THE    LAW 

BILLY  slept  all  that  day  and  the  night  that 
followed,  and  Pelliter  did  not  awaken  him. 
He  aroused  himself  from  his  long  sleep  of  ex- 
haustion an  hour  or  two  before  dawn  of  the 
following  morning,  and  for  the  first  time  he  had 
the  opportunity  of  going  over  with  himself  all 
the  things  that  had  happened  since  his  return 
to  Fullerton  Point.  His  first  thought  was 
Pelliter  and  Little  Mystery.  He  could  hear 
his  comrade's  deep  breathing  in  the  bunk  oppo- 
site him,  and  again  he  wondered  if  Pelliter 
had  told  him  everything.  Was  it  possible  that 
Blake  had  said  nothing  to  reveal  Little  Mys- 
tery's identity,  and  that  the  igloo  and  the  dead 
Eskimo  woman  had  not  given  up  the  secret? 
It  seemed  inconceivable  that  there  would  not  be 
something  in  the  igloo  that  would  help  to  clear 
up  the  mystery.  And  yet,  after  all,  he  had 
faith  in  Pelliter.  He  knew  that  he  would  keep 
118 


IN    DEFIANCE   OF   THE    LAW 

nothing  from  him  even  though  it  meant  posses- 
sion of  the  child.  And  then  his  mind  leaped  to 
Isobel  Deane.  Her  eyes  were  blue,  and  they 
had  in  them  those  same  little  spots  of  brown  he 
had  found  in  Little  Mystery's.  They  were  un- 
usual eyes,  and  he  had  noticed  the  brown  in 
them  because  it  had  added  to  their  loveliness 
and  had  made  him  think  of  the  violets  he  had 
told  Pelliter  about.  Was  it  possible,  he  asked 
himself,  that  there  could  be  some  association 
between  Isobel  and  Little  Mystery?  He  con- 
fessed that  it  was  scarcely  conceivable,  and  yet 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  get  the  thought  out 
of  his  mind. 

Before  Pelliter  awoke  he  had  determined 
upon  his  own  course  of  action.  He  would  say 
nothing  of  what  had  happened  to  himself  on  the 
Barren,  at  least  not  for  a  time.  He  would  not 
tell  of  his  meeting  with  Isobel  and  her  husband 
or  of  what  had  followed.  Until  he  was  abso- 
lutely certain  that  Pelliter  was  keeping  nothing 
from  him  he  would  not  confide  the  secret  of  his 
own  treachery  to  him.  For  he  had  been  a 
traitor — to  the  Law.  He  realized  that.  He 
could  tell  the  story,  with  its  fictitious  ending, 
before  they  set  out  for  Churchill,  where  he 
would  give  evidence  against  Bucky  Smith. 
119 


ISOBEL 

Meanwhile  he  would  watch  Pelliter,  and  wait 
for  him  to  reveal  whatever  he  might  have  hidden 
from  him.  He  knew  that  if  Pelliter  was  con- 
cealing something  he  was  inspired  by  his  almost 
insane  worship  of  the  little  girl  he  had  found 
who  had  saved  him  from  madness  and  death. 
He  smiled  in  the  darkness  as  he  thought  that 
if  Pelliter  were  working  to  achieve  his  own  end 
— possession  of  Little  Mystery — he  was  inspired 
by  emotions  no  more  selfish  than  his  own  in 
giving  back  life  to  Isobel  Deane  and  her 
husband.  On  that  score  they  were  even. 

He  was  up  and  had  breakfast  started  before 
Pelliter  awoke.  Little  Mystery  was  still  sleep- 
ing, and  the  two  men  moved  about  softly  in 
their  moccasined  feet.  On  this  morning  the 
sun  shone  brilliantly  over  the  southern  ice- 
fields, and  Pelliter  aroused  Little  Mystery  so 
that  she  might  see  it  before  it  disappeared. 
But  to-day  it  did  not  drop  below  the  gray 
murkiness  of  the  snow-horizon  for  nearly  an 
hour.  After  breakfast  Pelliter  read  his  letters 
again,  and  then  Billy  read  them.  In  one  of  the 
letters  the  girl  had  put  a  tress  of  sunny  hair,  and 
Pelliter  kissed  it  shamelessly  before  his  com- 
rade. 

"She  says  she's  making  the  dress  she's  going 

120 


IN    DEFIANCE   OF   THE   LAW 

to  wear  when  we're  married,  and  that  if  I  don't 
come  home  before  it's  out  of  style  she'll  never 
marry  me  at  all,"  he  cried,  joyously.  "Look 
there,  on  that  page  she's  told  me  all  about  it. 
You're — you're  goin'  to  be  there,  ain't  you, 
Billy?" 

"If  I  can  make  it,  Pelly." 
"If  you  can  make  it!     I  thought  you  was  go- 
ing out  of  the  Service  when  I  did." 
"I've  sort  of  changed  my  mind." 
"And  you're  going  to  stick?" 
"Mebbe  for  another  three  years." 
Life  in  the  cabin  was  different  after  this. 
Pelliter  and  Little  Mystery  were  happy,  and 
Billy  fought  with  himself  every  hour  to  keep 
down  his  own  gloom  and  despair.     The  sun 
helped    him.     It   rose   earlier   each    day   and 
remained  longer  in  the  sky,  and  soon  the  warmth 
of  it  began  to  soften  the  snow  underfoot.     The 
vast  fields  of  ice  began  to  give  evidence  of  the 
approach  of  spring,  and  the  air  was  more  and 
more  filled  with  the  thunderous  echoes  of  the 
"break  up."     Great  floes  broke  from  the  shore- 
runs,  and  the  sea  began  to  open.     Down  from 
the  north  the  powerful  arctic  currents  began  to 
move  their  grinding,  roaring  avalanches.     But 
it  was  a  full  month  before  Billy  was  sure  that 

121 


ISOBEL 

Pelliter  was  strong  enough  to  begin  the  long 
trip  south.  Even  then  he  waited  for  another 
week. 

Late  one  afternoon  he  went  out  alone  and 
stood  on  the  cliff  watching  the  thunderous 
movement  of  arctic  ice  out  in  the  Roes  Wel- 
come. Standing  motionless  fifty  paces  from  the 
little  storm-beaten  cabin  that  represented  Law 
at  this  loneliest  outpost  on  the  American  conti- 
nent, he  looked  like  a  carven  thing  of  dun-gray 
rock,  with  a  dun-gray  world  over  his  head  and 
on  all  sides  of  him,  broken  only  in  its  terrific 
monotony  of  deathlike  sameness  by  the  darker 
gloom  of  the  sky  and  the  whiter  and  ghostlier 
gloom  that  hung  over  the  ice-fields.  The  wind 
was  still  bitter,  and  his  vision  was  shut  in  by  a 
near  horizon  which  Billy  had  often  thought  of 
as  the  rim  of  hell.  On  this  afternoon  his  heart 
was  as  leaden  as  the  day.  Under  his  feet  the 
frozen  earth  shivered  with  the  rumbling  rever- 
berations of  the  crashing  and  breaking  moun- 
tains of  ice.  His  ears  were  filled  with  a  dull  and 
steady  roar,  like  the  echoes  of  distant  thunder, 
broken  now  and  then — when  an  ice-mountain 
split  asunder — with  a  report  like  that  of  a 
thirteen-inch  gun.  There  were  curious  wail- 
ings,  strange  screeching  sounds,  and  heart- 

122 


IN    DEFIANCE   OF   THE    LAW 

breaking  meanings  in  the  air.  Two  days  before 
MacVeigh  had  heard  the  roar  of  the  ice  ten 
miles  inland,  where  he  had  gone  for  caribou. 

But  he  scarcely  heard  that  roar  now.  He  was 
looking  toward  the  warring  fields  of  ice,  but  he 
did  not  see  them.  It  was  not  the  dead  gloom 
and  the  gray  monotony  that  weighted  his  heart, 
but  the  sounds  that  he  heard  now  and  then  in 
the  cabin — the  laughing  of  Little  Mystery  and 
of  Pelliter.  A  few  days  more  and  he  would 
lose  them.  And  after  that  what  would  be  left 
for  him?  A  cry  broke  from  his  lips,  and  he 
gripped  his  hands  in  despair.  He  would  be 
alone.  There  was  no  one  waiting  for  him  down 
in  that  world  to  which  Pelliter  was  going,  no 
girl  to  meet  him,  no  father,  no  mother — nothing. 
He  laughed  in  his  pain  as  he  faced  the  cold  wind 
from  the  north.  The  sting  of  that  wind  was 
like  the  mocking  ghost  of  his  own  past  life.  For 
all  his  life  he  had  known  only  the  stings  of  pain 
and  of  loneliness.  And  then,  suddenly,  there 
came  Pelliter's  words  to  him  again — "Mebbe 
some  day  you'll  have  a  kid. "  A  flood  of  warmth 
swept  through  his  veins,  and  in  the  moment  of 
forgetfulness  and  hope  which  came  with  it  he 
turned  his  eyes  into  the  south  and  west  and  saw 
the  sweet  face  and  upturned  lips  of  Isobel  Deane. 
9  123 


JSOBEL 

He  pulled  himself  together  with  a  low  laugh 
and  faced  the  breaking  seas  of  ice  and  the  north. 
The  gloom  of  night  had  drawn  the  horizon 
nearer.  The  rumble  and  thunder  of  crumbling 
floes  came  from  out  of  a  purple  chaos  that  was 
growing  blue-black  in  the  distance.  For  several 
minutes  he  stood  listening  and  looking  into 
nothingness.  The  breaking  of  the  ice,  the 
moaning  discontent  in  the  air,  and  the  growling 
monotone  of  the  giant  currents  had  driven  other 
men  mad;  but  they  held  a  fascination  for  him. 
He  knew  what  was  happening,  and  he  could 
almost  measure  the  strength  of  the  unseen 
hands  of  nature.  No  sound  was  new  or  strange 
to  him.  But  now,  as  he  stood  there,  there  rose 
above  all  the  other  tumult  a  sound  that  he  had 
not  heard  before.  His  body  became  suddenly 
tense  and  alert  as  he  faced  squarely  to  the 
north.  For  a  full  minute  he  listened,  and  then 
turned  and  ran  to  the  cabin. 

Pelliter  had  lighted  a  lamp,  and  in  its  glow 
Billy's  face  shone  white  with  excitement. 

"Good  God,  Pelly,  come  here!"  he  cried  from 
the  door. 

As  Pelliter  ran  out  he  gripped  him  by  the 
shoulders. 

"Listen!"  he  commanded.  "Listen  to  that!" 
124 


IN    DEFIANCE   OF   THE    LAW 

"Wolves!"  said  Pelliter. 

The  wind  was  rising,  and  sent  a  whistling 
blast  through  the  open  door  of  the  cabin.  It 
awakened  Little  Mystery,  who  sat  up  with 
frightened  cries. 

"No,  it's  not  wolves,"  cried  MacVeigh,  and  it 
did  not  sound  like  MacVeigh's  voice  that  spoke. 
"I  never  heard  wolves  like  that.  Listen!" 

He  clutched  Pelliter's  arm  as  on  a  fresh  burst 
of  the  wind  there  came  the  strange  and  terrible 
sound  from  out  of  the  night.  It  was  rapidly 
drawing  nearer — a  wailing  burst  of  savage  voice, 
as  if  a  great  wolf  pack  had  struck  the  fresh  and 
blood-stained  trail  of  game.  But  with  this 
there  was  the  other  and  more  fearful  sound,  a 
shrieking  and  yelping  as  if  half -human  creatures 
were  being  torn  by  the  fangs  of  beasts.  As 
Pelliter  and  MacVeigh  stood  waiting  for  some- 
thing to  appear  out  of  the  gray-and-black 
mystery  of  the  night  they  heard  a  sound  that 
was  like  the  slow  tolling  of  a  thing  that  was 
half  bell  and  half  drum. 

"It's  not  wolves,"  shouted  Billy.  "What- 
ever it  is,  there's  men  with  it!  Hurry,  Pelly, 
into  the  cabin  with  our  dogs  and  sledge !  Those 
are  dogs  we  hear — dogs  who  are  howling  because 
they  smell  us — and  there  are  hundreds  of  'em! 
125 


ISOBEL 

Where  there's  dogs  there's  men — but  who  in 
Heaven's  name  can  they  be?" 

He  dragged  the  sledge  into  the  cabin  while 
Pelliter  unleashed  the  huskies  from  the  lean-to. 
When  he  came  in  with  the  dogs  Pelliter  locked 
and  bolted  the  door. 

Billy  slipped  a  clipful  of  cartridges  into  his 
big-game  Remington.  His  carbine  was  already 
on  the  table,  and  as  Pelliter  stood  staring  at 
him  in  indecision  he  pulled  out  two  Savage  au- 
tomatics from  under  his  bunk  and  gave  one  of 
them  to  his  companion.  His  face  was  white 
and  set. 

"Better  get  ready,  Pelly,"  he  said,  quietly. 
"I've  been  in  this  country  a  long  time,  and  I  tell 
you  they're  dogs  and  men.  Did  you  hear  the 
drum  ?  It's  made  of  seal  belly,  and  there's  a  bell 
on  each  side  of  it.  They're  Eskimos,  and  there 
isn't  an  Eskimo  village  within  two  hundred 
miles  of  us  this  winter.  They're  Eskimos,  and 
they're  not  on  a  hunt,  unless  it's  for  us!" 

In  an  instant  Pelliter  was  buckling  on"  his 
revolver  and  cartridge-belt.  He  grinned  as  he 
looked  at  the  wicked  little  blue-steeled  Savage. 

"I  hope  you  ain't  mistaken,  Billy,"  he  said, 
"for  it  '11  be  the  first  excitement  we've  had  in  a 
year." 

126 


IN    DEFIANCE   OF   THE   LAW 

None  of  his  enthusiasm  revealed  itself  in 
MacVeigh's  face. 

"The  Eskimo  never  fights  until  he's  gone 
mad,  Pelly,"  he  said,  "and  you  know  what  mad- 
men are.  I  can't  guess  what  they've  got  to 
fight  over,  unless  they  want  our  grub.  But  if 
they  do — "  He  moved  toward  the  door,  his 
swift-firing  Remington  in  his  hand.  "Be  ready 
to  cover  me,  Pelly.  I'm  going  out.  Don't  fire 
until  you  hear  me  shoot." 

He  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out.  The 
howling  had  ceased  now,  but  there  came  in  its 
place  strange  barking  voices  and  a  cracking 
which  Billy  knew  was  made  by  the  long  Eskimo 
whips.  He  advanced  to  meet  many  dim  forms 
which  he  saw  breaking  out  of  the  wall  of  gloom, 
raising  his  voice  in  a  loud  holloa.  From  the 
doorway  Pelliter  saw  him  suddenly  lost  in  a 
mass  of  dogs  and  men,  and  half  flung  his  carbine 
to  his  shoulder.  But  there  was  no  shooting 
from  MacVeigh.  A  score  of  sledges  had  drawn 
up  about  him,  and  the  whips  of  dozens  of  little 
black  men  cracked  viciously  as  their  dogs  sank 
upon  their  bellies  in  the  snow.  Both  men  and 
dogs  were  tired,  and  Billy  saw  that  they  had 
been  running  long  and  hard.  Still  as  quick  as 
animals  the  little  men  gathered  about  him,  their 
127 


ISOBEL 

white-and-black  eyes  staring  at  him  out  of 
round,  thick,  dumb-looking  faces.  He  noted 
that  they  were  half  a  hundred  strong,  and  that 
all  were  armed,  many  with  their  little  javelin- 
like  narwhal  harpoons,  some  with  spears,  and 
others  with  rifles.  From  the  circle  of  strangely 
dressed  and  hideously  visaged  beings  that  had 
gathered  about  him  one  advanced  and  began 
talking  to  him  in  a  language  that  was  like  the 
rapid  clack  of  knuckle  bones. 

' '  Kogmollocks !"  Billy  groaned,  and  he  lifted 
both  hands  to  show  that  he  did  not  understand. 
Then  he  raised  his  voice.  "Nuna-talmute,"  he 
cried.  "  Nuna-talmute — Nuna-talmute !  Ain't 
there  one  of  that  lingo  among  you?" 

He  spoke  directly  to  the  chief  man,  who 
stared  at  him  in  silence  for  a  moment  and  then 
pointed  both  short  arms  toward  the  lighted 
cabin. 

"Come  on!"  said  Billy.  He  caught  the  little 
Eskimo  by  one  of  his  thick  arms  and  led  him 
boldly  through  the  breach  that  was  made  for 
them  in  the  circle.  The  chief  man's  voice 
broke  out  in  a  few  words  of  command,  like  a 
dozen  quick,  sharp  yelps  of  a  dog,  and  six  other 
Eskimos  dropped  in  behind  them. 
i  "Kogmollocks — the  blackest-hearted  little 

128 


IN    DEFIANCE   OF   THE   LAW 

devils  alive  when  it  comes  to  trading  wives  and 
fighting,"  said  MacVeigh  to  Pelliter,  as  he  came 
up  at  the  head  of  the  seven  little  black  men. 
"Watch  the  door,  Pelly.  They're  coming 
in." 

He  stepped  into  the  cabin,  and  the  Eski- 
mos followed.  From  Pelliter's  bunk  Little  Mys- 
tery looked  at  the  strange  visitors  with  eyes 
which  suddenly  widened  with  surprise  and  joy, 
and  in  another  moment  she  had  given  the 
strange  story  that  Pelliter  or  Billy  had  ever 
heard  her  utter.  Scarcely  had  that  cry  fallen 
from  her  lips  when  one  of  the  Eskimos  sprang 
toward  her.  His  black  hands  were  already  upon 
her,  dragging  the  child  from  the  bunk,  when  with 
a  warning  yell  of  rage  Pelliter  leaped  from  the 
door  and  sent  him  crashing  back  among  his 
companions.  In  another  instant  both  men 
were  facing  the  seven  Eskimos  with  leveled 
automatics. 

"If  you  fire  don't  shoot  to  kill!"  commanded 
MacVeigh. 

The  chief  man  was  pointing  to  Little  Mystery, 
his  weird  voice  rising  until  it  was  almost  a 
scream.  Suddenly  he  doubled  himself  back  and 
raised  his  javelin.  Simultaneously  two  streams 
of  fire  leaped  from  the  automatics.  The  javelin 
129 


ISOBEL 

dropped  to  the  floor,  and  with  a  shrill  cry  which 
was  half  pain  and  half  command  the  leader 
staggered  back  to  the  door,  a  stream  of  blood 
running  from  his  wounded  hand.  The  others 
sprang  out  ahead  of  him,  and  Pelliter  closed 
and  bolted  the  door.  When  he  turned  Mac- 
Veigh  was  closing  and  slipping  the  bolts  to  the 
heavy  barricades  of  the  two  windows.  From 
Pelliter's  bunk  Little  Mystery  looked  at  them 
and  laughed. 

"So  it's  you?"  said  Billy,  coming  to  her,  and 
breathing  hard.  "It's  you  they  want,  eh? 
Now,  I  wonder  why?" 

Pelliter's  face  was  flushed  with  excitement. 
He  was  reloading  his  automatic.  There  was 
almost  a  triumph  in  his  eyes  as  he  met  Mac- 
Veigh's  questioning  gaze. 

They  stood  and  listened,  heard  only  the 
rumbling  monotone  of  the  drifting  ice — not  the 
breath  of  a  sound  from  the  scores  of  men  and 
dogs. 

"We've  given  them  a  lesson,"  said  Pelliter,  at 
last,  smiling  with  the  confidence  of  a  man  who 
was  half  a  tenderfoot  among  the  little  brown 
men. 

Billy  pointed  to  the  door. 

"That  door  is  about  the  only  place  vulnerable 
130 


IN    DEFIANCE   OF   THE    LAW 

to  their  bullets,"  he  said,  as  though  he  had  not 
heard  Pelliter.  "Keep  out  of  its  range.  I 
don't  believe  what  guns  they've  got  are  heavy 
enough  to  penetrate  the  logs.  Your  bunk  is  out 
of  line  and  safe." 

He  went  to  Little  Mystery,  and  his  stern  face 
relaxed  into  a  smile  as  she  put  up  her  arms  to 
greet  him. 

"So  it's  you,  is  it?"  he  asked  again,  taking  her 
warm  little  face  and  soft  curls  between  his  two 
hands.  "They  want  you,  an'  they  want  you 
bad.  Well,  they  can  have  grub,  an'  they  can 
have  me,  but" — he  looked  up  to  meet  Pelliter's 
eyes — "I'm  damned  if  they  can  have  you,"  he 
finished. 

Suddenly  the  night  was  broken  by  another 
sound,  the  sharp,  explosive  crack  of  rifles. 
They  could  hear  the  beat  of  bullets  against  the 
log  wall  of  the  cabin.  One  crashed  through  the 
door,  tearing  away  a  splinter  as  wide  as  a  man's 
arm,  and  as  MacVeigh  nodded  to  the  path  of 
the  bullet  he  laughed.  Pelliter  had  heard  that 
laugh  before.  He  knew  what  it  meant.  He 
knew  what  the  death-whiteness  of  MacVeigh's 
face  meant.  It  was  not  fear,  but  something 
more  terrible  than  fear.  His  own  face  was 
flushed.  That  is  the  difference  in  men. 


ISOBEL 

MacVeigh  suddenly  darted  across  the  danger 
zone  to  the  opposite  half  of  the  cabin. 

"If  that's  your  game,  here  goes,"  he  cried. 
"Now,  damny',  you're  so  anxious  to  fight — get 
at  it  'n'  fight!" 

He  spoke  the  last  words  to  Pelliter.  Billy 
always  swore  when  he  went  into  action. 


XI 

THE   NIGHT  OF  PERIL 

ON  his  own  side  of  the  cabin  Pelliter  began 
tugging  at  a  small,  thin  block  laid  between 
two  of  the  logs.  The  shooting  outside  had 
ceased  when  the  two  men  opened  up  the  loop- 
holes that  commanded  a  range  seaward.  Al- 
most immediately  it  began  again,  the  dull  red 
flashes  showing  the  location  of  the  Eskimos, 
who  had  drawn  back  to  the  ridge  that  sloped 
down  to  the  Bay.  As  the  last  of  five  shots 
left  his  Remington  Billy  pulled  in  his  gun  and 
faced  across  to  Pelliter,  who  was  already  re- 
loading. 

'Telly,  I  don't  want  to  croak,"  he  said,  "but 
this  is  the  last  of  Law  at  Fullerton  Point — for 
you  and  me.  Look  at  that!" 

He  raised  the  muzzle  of  his  rifle  to  one  of 
the  logs  over  his  head.  Pelliter  could  see  the 
fresh  splinters  sticking  out. 

"They've  got  some  heavy   calibers,"   con- 


ISOBEL 

tinued  Billy,  "and  they've  hidden  behind  the 
slope,  where  they're  safe  from  us  for  a  thousand 
years.  As  soon  as  it  grows  light  enough  to  see 
they'll  fill  this  shack  as  full  of  holes  as  an  old 
cheese." 

As  if  to  verify  his  words  a  single  shot  rang 
out  and  a  bullet  plowed  through  a  log  so  close 
to  Pelliter  that  the  splinters  flew  into  his  face. 

"I  know  these  little  devils,  Pelly,"  went  on 
MacVeigh.  "If  they  were  Nuna-talmutes  you 
could  scare  'em  with  a  sky-rocket.  But  they're 
Kogmollocks.  They've  murdered  the  crews 
of  half  a  dozen  whalers,  and  I  shouldn't  wonder 
if  they'd  got  the  kid  in  some  such  way.  They 
wouldn't  let  us  off  now,  even  if  we  gave  her  up. 
It  wouldn't  do.  They  know  better  than  to  let 
the  Law  get  any  evidence  against  them.  If 
we're  killed  and  the  cabin  burned,  who's  going 
to  say  what  happened  to  us?  There's  just  two 
things  for  us  to  do — " 

Another  fusillade  of  shots  came  from  the 
snow  ridge,  and  a  third  bullet  crashed  into  the 
cabin. 

"Just  two  things,"  Billy  went  on,  as  he  com- 
pletely shaded  the  dimly  burning  lamp.  "We 
can  stay  here  'n'  die — or  run." 

"Run!" 


THE    NIGHT   OF    PERIL 

This  was  an  unknown  word  in  the  Service, 
and  in  Pelliter's  voice  there  were  both  amaze- 
ment and  contempt. 

"Yes,  run,"  said  Billy,  quietly.  "Run— for 
the  kid's  sake." 

It  was  almost  dark  in  the  cabin,  and  Pelliter 
came  close  to  his  companion. 

"You  mean—" 

"That  it's  the  only  way  to  save  the  kid. 
We  might  give  her  up,  then  fight  it  out,  but  that 
means  she'd  go  back  to  the  Eskimos,  'n*  mebbe 
never  be  found  again.  The  men  and  dogs  out 
there  are  bushed.  We  are  fresh.  If  we  can 
get  away  from  the  cabin  we  can  beat  'em  out." 

"We'll  run,  then,"  said  Pelliter.  He  went 
to  Little  Mystery,  who  sat  stunned  into  silence 
by  the  strange  things  that  were  happening,  and 
hugged  her  up  in  his  arms,  his  back  turned  to 
the  possible  bullet  that  might  come  through  the 
wall.  "We're  going  to  run,  little  sweetheart," 
he  mumbled,  half  laughingly,  in  her  curls. 

Billy  began  to  pack,  and  Pelliter  put  Little 
Mystery  down  on  the  bunk  and  started  to  har- 
ness the  six  dogs,  ranging  them  close  along  the 
wall,  with  old  one-eyed  Kazan,  the  hero  who 
had  saved  him  from  Blake,  in  the  lead.  Outside 
the  firing  had  ceased.  It  was  evident  that  the 


ISOBEL 

Eskimos  had  made  up  their  minds  to  save  their 
ammunition  until  dawn. 

Fifteen  minutes  sufficed  to  load  the  sledge; 
and  while  Pelliter  was  fastening  the  sledge 
traces  MacVeigh  bundled  Little  Mystery  into 
her  thick  fur  coat.  The  sleeves  caught,  and  he 
turned  it  back,  exposing  the  white  edge  of  the 
lining.  On  that  lining  was  something  which 
drew  him  down  close,  and  when  the  strange 
cry  that  fell  from  his  lips  drew  Pelliter's  eyes 
toward  him  he  was  staring  down  into  Little 
Mystery's  upturned  face  with  the  look  of  one 
who  saw  a  vision. 

"Mother  of  Heaven!"  he  gasped,  "she's — " 
He  caught  himself,  and  smothered  Little 
Mystery  up  close  to  him  for  a  moment  before 
he  brought  her  to  the  sledge.  "She's  the 
bravest  little  kid  in  the  world,"  he  finished; 
and  Pelliter  wondered  at  the  strangeness  of  his 
voice.  He  tucked  her  into  a  nest  made  of 
blankets  and  then  tied  her  in  securely  with 
babiche  rope.  Pelliter  stood  up  first  and  saw 
the  hungry,  staring  look  in  MacVeigh's  face 
as  he  kept  his  eyes  steadily  upon  Little  Mys- 
tery. 

' ' What's  the  matter,  Mac ?"  he  asked.     "Are 
you  very  much  afraid — for  her?" 
136 


THE   NIGHT   OF    PERIL 

"No,"  said  MacVeigh,  without  lifting  his 
head.  "If  you're  ready,  Pelly,  open  the  door." 
He  rose  to  his  feet  and  picked  up  his  rifle.  He 
did  not  seem  like  the  old  MacVeigh;  but  the 
dogs  were  nipping  and  whining,  and  there  was 
no  time  for  Pelliter's  questions. 

"I'm  going  out  first,  Billy,"  he  said.  "You 
can  make  up  your  mind  they're  watching  the 
cabin  pretty  close,  and  as  soon  as  the  dogs  nose 
the  open  air  they'll  begin  yapping  'n'  let  'em 
on  to  us.  We  can't  risk  her  under  fire.  So 
I'm  going  to  back  along  the  edge  of  the  ridge 
and  give  it  to  'em  as  fast  as  I  can  work  the  gun. 
They'll  all  turn  to  me,  and  that's  the  time  for 
you  to  open  the  door  and  make  your  getaway. 
I'll  be  with  you  inside  of  five  minutes." 

He  turned  out  the  lights  as  he  spoke.  Then 
he  opened  the  door  and  slipped  out  into  the 
darkness  without  a  protesting  word  from 
MacVeigh.  Hardly  had  he  gone  when  the 
latter  fell  upon  his  knees  beside  Little  Mystery 
and  in  the  deep  gloom  crushed  his  rough  face 
down  against  her  soft,  warm  little  body. 

"So  it's  you,  is  it?"  he  cried,  softly;  and  then 
he  mumbled  things  which  the  little  girl  could 
not  possibly  have  understood. 

Suddenly  he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  ran  to  the 
i37 


ISOBEL 

door  with  a  word  to  faithful  old  Kazan,  the 
leader. 

From  far  down  the  snow-ridge  there  came  the 
rapid  firing  of  Pelliter's  rifle. 

For  a  moment  Billy  waited,  his  hand  on  the 
door,  to  give  the  watching  Eskimos  time  to  turn 
their  attention  toward  Pelliter.  He  could  per- 
haps have  counted  fifty  before  he  gave  Kazan 
the  leash  and  the  six  dogs  dragged  the  sledge 
out  into  the  night.  With  his  humanlike  intelli- 
gence old  Kazan  swung  quickly  after  his  master, 
and  the  team  darted  like  a  streak  into  the  south 
and  west,  giving  tongue  to  that  first  sharp, 
yapping  voice  which  it  is  impossible  to  beat  or 
train  out  of  a  band  of  huskies.  As  he  ran 
Billy  looked  back  over  his  shoulder.  In  the 
hundred-yard  stretch  of  gray  bloom  between  the 
cabin  and  the  snow-ridge  he  saw  three  figures 
speeding  like  wolves.  In  a  flash  the  meaning 
of  this  unexpected  move  of  the  Eskimos  dawned 
upon  him.  They  were  cutting  Pelliter  off  from 
the  cabin  and  his  course  of  flight. 

"Go  it,  Kazan!"  he  cried,  fiercely,  bending 

low  over  the  leader.     "Moo-hoosh — moo-hoosh 

— moo-hoosh,  old  man !' '  And  Kazan  leaped  into 

a  swift  run,  nipping  and  whining  at  the  empty  air. 

138 


THE    NIGHT   OF    PERIL 

Billy  stopped  and  whirled  about.  Two  other 
figures  had  joined  the  first  three,  and  he  opened 
fire.  One  of  the  running  Eskimos  pitched  for- 
ward with  a  cry  that  rose  shrill  and  scarcely 
human  above  the  moaning  and  roar  of  the  ice- 
fields, and  the  other  four  fell  flat  upon  the  snow 
to  escape  the  hail  of  lead  that  sang  close  over 
their  heads.  From  the  snow-ridge  there  came 
a  fusillade  of  shots,  and  a  single  figure  darted 
like  a  streak  in  MacVeigh's  direction.  He  knew 
that  it  was  Pelliter;  and,  running  slowly  after 
Kazan  and  the  sledge,  he  rammed  a  fresh  clipful 
of  cartridges  into  the  chamber  of  his  rifle.  The 
figures  in  the  open  had  risen  again,  and  Pelli- 
ter's  automatic  Savage  trailed  out  a  stream  of 
fire  as  he  ran.  He  was  breathing  heavily  when 
he  reached  Billy. 

"Kazan  has  got  the  kid  well  in  the  lead," 
shouted  the  latter.  "God  bless  that  old 
scoundrel!  I  believe  he's  human." 

They  set  off  swiftly,  and  the  thick  night  soon 
engulfed  all  signs  of  the  Eskimos.  Ahead  of 
them  the  sledge  loomed  up  slowly,  and  when 
they  reached  it  both  men  thrust  their  rifles  un- 
der the  blanket  straps.  Thus  relieved  of  their 
weight,  they  forged  ahead  of  Kazan. 

"Moo-hoosh — moo-hoosh!"  encouraged  Billy. 
10  139 


ISOBEL 

He  glanced  at  Pelliter  on  the  opposite  side. 
His  comrade  was  running  with  one  arm  raised 
at  the  proper  angle  to  reserve  breath  and  en- 
durance; the  other  hung  straight  and  limp  at 
his  side.  A  sudden  fear  shot  through  him,  and 
he  darted  ahead  of  the  lead  dog  to  Pelliter's 
side.  He  did  not  speak,  but  touched  the  other's 
arm. 

"One  of  the  little  devil's  winged  me,"  gasped 
Pelliter.  "It's  not  bad." 

He  was  breathing  as  though  the  short  run 
was  already  winding  him,  and  without  a  word 
Billy  ran  up  to  Kazan's  head  and  stopped  the 
team  within  twenty  paces.  The  open  blade  of 
his  knife  was  ripping  up  Pelliter's  sleeve  before 
his  comrade  could  find  words  to  object.  Pelli- 
ter was  bleeding,  and  bleeding  hard.  His  face 
was  shot  with  pain.  The  bullet  had  passed 
through  the  fleshy  part  of  his  forearm,  but  had 
fortunately  missed  the  main  artery.  With  the 
quick  deftness  of  the  wilderness-trained  surgeon 
Billy  drew  the  wound  close  and  bound  it  tightly 
with  his  own  and  Pelliter's  handkerchiefs.  Then 
he  thrust  Pelliter  toward  the  sledge.  • 

"You've  got  to  ride,  Pelly,"  he  said.  "If 
you  don't  you'll  go  under,  and  that  means  all 
of  us." 

140 


THE   NIGHT   OF    PERIL 

Far  behind  them  there  rose  the  yapping  and 
howling  of  dogs. 

"They're  after  us  with  the  dogs!"  groaned 
Pelliter.  "I  can't  ride.  I've  got  to  run — and 
fight!" 

"You  get  on  the  sledge,  or  I'll  stave  your  head 
in !"  commanded  MacVeigh.  ' '  Face  the  enemy, 
Pelly,  and  give  'em  hell.  You've  got  three 
rifles  there.  You  can  do  the  shooting  while  I 
hustle  on  the  dogs.  And  keep  yourself  in  front 
of  her,"  he  added,  pointing  to  the  almost  com- 
pletely buried  Little  Mystery. 


XII 

LITTLE   MYSTERY   FINDS   HER   OWN 


A?TER  convincing  Pelliter  that  he  must  ride 
on  the  sledge  Billy  ran  on  ahead,  and  the 
dogs  started  with  their  heavier  load. 

"Now  for  the  timber-line,"  he  called  down 
to  Kazan.  "It's  fifty  miles,  old  boy,  and 
you've  got  to  make  it  by  dawn.  If  we  don't  —  " 

He  left  the  words  unfinished,  but  Kazan 
tugged  harder,  as  if  he  had  heard  and  under- 
stood. The  sledge  had  reached  the  unbroken 
sweep  of  the  Barren  now,  and  MacVeigh  felt 
the  wind  in  his  face.  It  was  blowing  from  the 
north  and  west,  and  with  it  came  sudden  gusts 
filled  with  fine  particles  of  snow.  After  a  few 
moments  he  fell  back  to  see  that  Little  Mys- 
tery's face  was  completely  covered.  Pelliter 
was  crouching  low  on  the  sledge,  his  feet 
braced  in  the  blanket  straps.  His  wound  and 
the  uncomfortable  sensation  of  riding  backward 
on  a  swaying  sledge  were  making  him  dizzy,  and 
142 


MYSTERY    FINDS    HER   OWN 

he  wondered  if  what  he  saw  creeping  up  out  of 
the  night  was  a  result  of  this  dizziness  or  a 
reality.  There  was  no  sound  from  behind. 
But  a  darker  spot  had  grown  within  his  vision, 
at  times  becoming  larger,  then  almost  disap- 
pearing. Twice  he  raised  his  rifle.  Twice  he 
lowered  it  again,  convinced  that  the  thing  be- 
hind was  only  a  shadowy  fabric  of  his  imagina- 
tion. It  was  possible  that  their  pursuers  would 
lose  trace  of  them  in  the  darkness,  and  so  he 
held  his  fire. 

He  was  staring  at  the  shadow  when  from  out 
of  it  there  leaped  a  little  spurt  of  flame,  and  a 
bullet  sang  past  the  sledge,  a  yard  to  the  right. 
It  was  a  splendid  shot.  There  was  a  marksman 
with  the  shadow,  and  Pelliter  replied  so  quickly 
that  the  first  shot  had  not  died  away  before 
there  followed  the  second.  Five  times  his 
automatic  sent  its  leaden  messengers  back  into 
the  night,  and  at  the  fifth  shot  there  came  a  wild 
outburst  of  pain  from  one  of  the  Eskimo  dogs. 

' '  Hurrah !"  shouted  Billy.  ' '  That's  one  team 
out  of  business,  Pelly.  We  can  beat  'em  in  a 
running  fight!" 

He  heard  the  quick  metallic  snap  of  fresh 
cartridges  as  Pelliter  slipped  them  into  the 
chamber  of  his  rifle,  but  beyond  that  sound,  the 


ISOBEL 

wind,  and  the  straining  of  the  huskies  there  was 
no  other.  A  grim  silence  fell  behind.  The 
roar  of  the  distant  ice  grew  less.  The  earth  no 
longer  seemed  to  shudder  under  their  feet  at 
the  terrific  explosions  of  the  crumbling  bergs. 
But  in  place  of  these  the  wind  was  rising  and 
the  fine  snow  was  thickening.  Billy  no  longer 
turned  to  look  behind.  He  stared  ahead  and 
as  far  as  he  could  see  on  each  side  of  them. 
At  the  end  of  half  an  hour  the  panting  dogs 
dropped  into  a  walk,  and  he  walked  close  beside 
his  comrade. 

"They've  given  it  up,"  groaned  Pelliter, 
weakly.  "I'm  glad  of  it,  Mac,  for  I'm — I'm — 
dizzy."  He  was  lying  on  the  sledge  now, 
with  his  head  bolstered  up  on  a  pile  of 
blankets. 

"You  know  how  the  wolves  hunt,  Pelly,"  said 
MacVeigh — "in  a  moon-shape  half  circle,  you 
know,  that  closes  in  on  the  running  game  from 
in  front?  Well,  that's  how  the  Eskimos  hunt, 
and  I'm  wondering  if  they're  trying  to  get 
ahead  of  us — off  there,  and  off  there."  He 
motioned  to  the  north  and  the  south. 

"They  can't,"  replied  Pelliter,  raising  him- 
self to  his  elbow  with  an  effort.  "Their  dogs 
are  bushed.  Let  me  walk,  Mac.  I  can — " 
144 


MYSTERY    FINDS    HER   OWN 

He  fell  back  with  a  sudden  low  cry.  "Gawd, 
but  I'm  dizzy- 
Mac  Veigh  halted  the  dogs,  and  while  they 
dropped  upon  their  bellies,  panting  and  licking 
up  the  snow,  he  kneeled  beside  Pelliter.  Dark- 
ness concealed  the  fear  in  his  eyes  and  face. 
His  voice  was  strong  and  cheerful. 

"You've  got  to  lie  still,  Pelly,"  he  warned, 
arranging  the  blankets  so  that  the  wounded 
man  could  rest  comfortably.,  "You've  got 
a  pretty  bad  nip,  and  it's  best  for  all  of  us 
that  you  don't  make  a  move.  You're  right 
about  the  Eskimos  and  their  dogs.  They're 
bushed,  and  they've  given  the  chase  up  as  a 
bad  job,  so  what's  the  use  of  making  a  fool  of 
yourself?  Ride  it  out,  Pelly.  Go  to  sleep  with 
Little  Mystery  if  you  can.  She  thinks  she's  in 
a  cradle." 

He  got  up  and  started  the  dogs.  For  a  long 
time  he  was  alone.  Little  Mystery  was  sleep- 
ing and  Pelliter  was  quiet.  Now  and  then  he 
dropped  his  mittened  hand  on  Kazan's  head, 
and  the  faithful  old  leader  whined  softly  at  his 
touch.  With  the  others  it  was  different. 
They  snapped  viciously,  and  he  kept  his  dis- 
tance. He  went  on  for  hours,  halting  the  team 
now  and  then  for  a  few  minutes'  rest.  He 


ISOBEL 

struck  a  match  each  time  and  looked  at  Pelli- 
ter.  His  comrade  breathed  heavily,  with  his 
eyes  closed.  Once,  long  after  midnight,  he 
opened  them  and  stared  at  the  flare  of  the 
match  and  into  MacVeigh's  white  face. 

"I'm  all  right,  Billy,"  he  said.  "Let  me 
walk—" 

MacVeigh  forced  him  back  gently,  and  went 
on.  He  was  alone  until  the  first  cold,  gray  break 
of  dawn.  Then  he  stopped,  gave  each  of  the 
dogs  a  frozen  fish,  and  with  the  fuel  on  the 
sledge  built  a  small  fire.  He  scraped  up  snow 
for  tea,  and  hung  the  pail  over  the  fire.  He  was 
frying  bacon  and  toasting  hard  bannock  bis- 
cuits when  Pelliter  aroused  himself  and  sat 
up.  Billy  did  not  see  him  until  he  faced 
about. 

"Good  morning,  Pelly,"  he  grinned.  "Have 
a  good  nap?" 

Pelliter  groped  about  on  the  sledge. 

"Wish  I  could  find  a  club,"  he  growled. 
"I'd — I'd  brain  you!  You  let  me  sleep!" 

He  thrust  out  his  uninjured  arm,  and  the  two 
shook  hands.  Once  or  twice  before  they  had 
done  this  after  hours  of  great  peril.  It  was 
not  an  ordinary  handshake. 

Billy  rose  to  his  feet.  Half  a  mile  away  the 
146 


MYSTERY    FINDS    HER   OWN 

edge  of  the  big  forest  for  which  they  had  been 
fighting  rose  out  of  the  dawn  gloom. 

"If  I'd  known  that,"  he  said,  pointing, 
"we'd  have  camped  in  shelter.  Fifty  miles, 
Pelly.  Not  so  bad,  was  it?" 

Behind  them  the  gray  Barren  was  lifting 
itself  into  the  light  of  day.  The  two  men  ate 
and  drank  tea.  During  those  few  minutes 
neither  gave  attention  to  the  forest  or  the 
Barren.  Billy  was  ravenously  hungry.  Pelli- 
ter  could  not  get  enough  of  the  tea.  And  then 
their  attention  went  to  Little  Mystery,  who 
awoke  with  a  wailing  protest  at  the  smothering 
cover  of  blankets  over  her  face.  Billy  dug  her 
out  and  held  her  up  to  view  the  strange  change 
since  yesterday.  It  was  then  that  Kazan  stopped 
licking  his  fishy  chops  to  send  up  a  wailing  howl. 

Both  men  turned  their  eyes  toward  the  forest. 
Halfway  between  a  figure  was  toiling  slowly 
toward  them.  It  was  a  man,  and  Billy  gave  a 
low  cry  of  astonishment. 

But  Kazan  was  facing  the  gray  Barren,  and  he 
howled  again,  long  and  menacingly.  The  other 
dogs  took  up  the  cry,  and  when  Pelliter  and 
MacVeigh  followed  the  direction  of  their  warn- 
ing they  stood  for  a  full  quarter  of  a  minute  as 
if  turned  into  stone. 

i47 


ISOBEL 

A  mile  away  the  Barren  was  dotted  with  a 
dozen  swiftly  moving  sledges  and  a  score  of 
running  men! 

After  all,  their  last  stand  was  to  be  made  at 
the  edge  of  the  timber-line ! 

In  such  situations  men  like  MacVeigh  and 
Pelliter  do  not  waste  precious  moments  in  pre- 
arranging actions  in  words.  Their  mental 
processes  are  instantaneous  and  correlative — 
and  they  act.  Without  a  word  Billy  replaced 
Little  Mystery  in  her  nest  without  even  giving 
her  a  sip  of  the  warm  tea,  and  by  the  time  the 
dogs  were  straightened  in  their  traces  Pelliter 
was  handing  him  his  Remington. 

"I've  ranged  it  for  three  hundred  and  fifty 
yards,"  he  said.  "We  won't  want  to  waste 
our  fire  until  they  come  that  near." 

They  set  out  at  a  trot,  Pelliter  running  with 
his  wounded  arm  down  at  his  side.  Suddenly 
the  lone  figure  between  them  and  the  forest 
disappeared.  It  had  fallen  flat  in  the  snow, 
where  it  lay  only  a  black  speck.  In  a  moment 
it  rose  again  and  advanced.  Both  Pelliter 
and  Billy  were  looking  when  it  fell  for  a  second 
time. 

An  unpleasant  laugh  came  from  MacVeigh's 
lips. 

148 


MYSTERY    FINDS    HER   OWN 

The  figure  was  climbing  to  its  feet  for  the 
fifth  time,  and  was  only  on  its  hands  and  knees 
when  the  sledge  drew  up.  It  was  a  white  man. 
His  head  was  bare,  his  face  deathlike.  His  neck 
was  open  to  the  cold  wind,  and,  to  the  others' 
astonishment,  he  wore  no  heavier  garment  over 
his  dark  flannel  shirt.  His  eyes  burned  wildly 
from  out  of  a  shaggy  growth  of  beard  and  hair, 
and  he  was  panting  like  one  who  had  traveled 
miles  instead  of  a  few  hundred  yards. 

All  this  Billy  saw  at  a  glance,  and  then  he 
gave  a  sudden  unbelieving  cry.  The  man's 
red  eyes  rested  on  his,  and  every  fiber  in  his 
body  seemed  for  a  moment  to  have  lost  the 
power  of  action.  He  gasped  and  stared,  and- 
Pelliter  started  as  if  stung  at  the  words  which 
came  first  from  his  lips. 

"Deane— Scottie  Deane!" 

An  amazed  cry  broke  from  Pelliter.  He 
looked  at  MacVeigh,  his  chief.  He  made  an 
involuntary  movement  forward,  but  Billy  was 
ahead  of  him.  He  had  flung  down  his  rifle, 
and  in  an  instant  was  on  his  knees  at  Deane 's 
side,  supporting  his  emaciated  figure  in  his 
arms. 

"Good  God!  what  does  this  mean,  old  man?" 
he  cried,  forgetting  Pelliter.     "What  has  hap- 
149 


ISOBEL 

pened?  Why  are  you  away  up  here?  And 
where — where — is  she?" 

He  had  gripped  Deane's  hand.  He  was  hold- 
ing him  tight ;  and  Deane,  looking  up  into  his 
eyes,  saw  that  he  was  no  longer  looking  into  the 
face  of  the  Law,  but  that  of  a  brother.  He 
smiled  feebly. 

"Cabin — back  there — in  edge — woods,"  he 
gasped.  "Saw  you — coming.  Thought  mebbe 
you'd  pass — so — came  out.  I'm  done  for — 
dying." 

He  drew  a  deep  breath  and  tried  to  assist  him- 
self as  Billy  raised  him  to  his  feet.  A  little 
wailing  cry  came  from  the  sledge.  Startled, 
Deane  turned  his  eyes  toward  that  cry. 

"My  God!"  he  screamed. 

He  tore  himself  away  from  Billy  and  flung 
himself  upon  his  knees  beside  Little  Mystery, 
sobbing  and  talking  like  a  madman  as  he 
clasped  the  frightened  child  in  his  arms.  With 
her  he  leaped  to  his  feet  with  new  strength. 

"She's  mine — mine!"  he  cried,  fiercely. 
"She's  what  brought  me  back!  I  was  going  for 
her!  Where  did  you  get  her?  How — " 

There  came  to  them  now  in  sudden  chorus 
the  wild  voice  of  the  Eskimo  dogs  out  on  the 
plain.  Deane  heard  the  cry  and  faced  with 
150 


MYSTERY    FINDS    HER   OWN 

the  others  in  their  direction.  They  were  not 
more  than  half  a  mile  away,  bearing  down  upon 
them  swiftly.  Billy  knew  that  there  was  not  a 
moment  to  lose.  In  a  flash  it  had  leaped  upon 
him  that  in  some  way  Deane  and  Isobel  and 
Little  Mystery  were  associated  with  that  aveng- 
ing horde,  and  as  quickly  as  he  could  he  told 
Deane  what  had  happened.  Sanity  had  come 
back  into  Deane's  eyes,  and  no  sooner  had  he 
heard  than  he  ran  out  in  the  face  of  the  army  of 
little  brown  men  with  Little  Mystery  in  his  arms. 
MacVeigh  and  Pelliter  could  hear  him  calling 
to  them  from  a  distance.  They  were  in  the 
edge  of  the  forest  when  Deane  met  the  Eskimos. 
There  was  a  long  wait,  and  then  Deane  and 
Little  Mystery  came  back — on  a  sledge  drawn 
by  Eskimo  dogs.  Beside  the  sledge  walked  the 
chief  who  had  been  wounded  in  the  cabin  at 
Fullerton  Point.  Deane  was  swaying,  his  head 
was  bowed  half  upon  his  breast,  and  the  chief 
and  another  Eskimo  were  supporting  him.  He 
nodded  to  the  right,  and  a  hundred  yards  away 
they  found  a  cabin.  The  powerful  little 
northerners  carried  him  in,  still  clutching  Little 
Mystery  in  his  arms,  and  he  made  a  motion  for 
Billy  to  follow  him — alone.  Inside  the  cabin 
they  placed  him  on  a  low  bunk,  and  with  a 


ISOBEL 

weak  cough  he  beckoned  Billy  to  his  side. 
MacVeigh  knew  what  that  cough  meant.  The 
sick  man  had  suffered  terrible  exposure,  and 
the  tissue  of  his  lungs  was  sloughing  away.  It 
was  death,  the  most  terrible  death  of  the  north. 

For  a  few  moments  Deane  lay  panting,  clasp- 
ing one  of  Billy's  hands.  Little  Mystery  slipped 
to  the  floor  and  began  to  investigate  the  cabin. 
Deane  smiled  into  Billy's  eyes. 

"You've  come  again — just  in  time,"  he  said, 
quite  steadily.  "Seems  queer,  don't  it,  Billy?" 

For  the  first  time  he  spoke  the  other's  name 
as  if  he  had  known  him  a  lifetime.  Billy  cov- 
ered him  over  gently  with  one  of  the  blankets, 
and  in  spite  of  himself  his  eyes  sought  about  him 
questioningly.  Deane  saw  the  look. 

"She  didn't  come,"  he  whispered.  "I  left 
her—" 

He  broke  off  with  a  racking  cough  that 
brought  a  crimson  stain  to  his  lips.  Billy  felt  a 
choking  grief. 

"You  must  be  quiet,"  he  said.  "Don't  try 
to  talk  now.  You  have  no  fire,  and  I  will  build 
one.  Then  I'll  make  you  something  hot." 

He  went  to  move  away,  but  one  of  Deane's 
hands  detained  him. 

"Not  until  I've  said  something  to  you,  Billy," 
152 


MYSTERY    FINDS    HER   OWN 

he  insisted.  "You  know — you  understand. 
I'm  dying.  It's  liable  to  come  any  minute  now, 
and  I've  got  to  tell  you — things.  You  must 
understand — before  I  go.  I  won't  be  long.  I 
killed  a  man,  but  I'm — not  sorry.  He  tried  to 
insult  her  —  my  wife  —  an'  you  —  you'd  have 
killed  him,  too.  You  people  began  to  hunt  me, 
and  for  safety  we  went  far  north — among  the 
Eskimos  —  an'  lived  there  —  long  time.  The 
Eskimos — they  loved  the  little  girl  an'  wife, 
specially  little  Isobel.  Thought  them  angels — 
some  sort.  Then  we  heard  you  were  goin' 
to  hunt  for  me — up  there — among  the  Eskimos. 
So  we  set  out  with  the  box.  Box  was  for  her — 
to  keep  her  from  fearful  cold.  We  didn't  dare 
take  the  baby — so  we  left  her  up  there.  We 
were  going  back — soon — after  you'd  made  your 
hunt.  When  we  saw  your  fire  on  the  edge  of 
the  Barren  she  made  me  get  in  the  box — an'  so 
— so  you  found  us.  You  know — after  that. 
You  thought  it  was — coffin — an'  she  told  you 
I  was  dead.  You  were  good — good  to  her — 
an'  you  must  go  down  there  where  she  is,  and 
take  little  Isobel.  We  were  goin'  to  do  as  you 
said — an'  go  to  South  America.  But  we  had  to 
have  the  baby,  an'  I  came  back.]  Should  have 
told  you.  We  knew  that  —  afterward.  But 


ISOBEL 

we  were  afraid  —  to  tell  the  secret — even  to 
you—" 

He  stopped,  panting  and  coughing.  Billy 
was  crushing  both  his  thin,  cold  hands  in  his 
own.  He  found  no  word  to  say.  He  waited, 
fighting  to  stifle  the  sobbing  grief  in  his 
breath. 

"You  were  good — good — good — to  her,"  re- 
peated Deane,  weakly.  "You  loved  her — an' 
it  was  right — because  you  thought  I  was  dead 
an'  she  was  alone  an'  needed  help.  I'm  glad 
— you  love  her.  You've  been  good — 'n'  honest 
— an  I  want  some  one  like  you  to  love  her  an' 
care  for  her.  She  ain't  got  nobody  but  me — 
an'  little  Isobel.  I'm  glad — glad — I've  found 
a  man — like  you!1' 

He  suddenly  wrenched  his  hands  free  and 
took  Billy's  tense  face  between  them,  staring 
straight  into  his  eyes. 

"An'  —  an'  —  I  give  her  to  you,"  he  said. 
"She's  an  angel,  and  she's  alone — needs  some 
one — an*  you — you'll  be  good  to  her.  You 
must  go  down  to  her — Pierre  Couchee's  cabin — 
on  the  LittlelBeaver.  An*  you'll  be  good  to  her 
— good  to  her — " 

"I  will  go  to  her,"  said  Billy,  softly.  "And 
I  swear  here  on  my  knees  before  the  great  and 


MYSTERY    FINDS    HER   OWN 

good  God  that  I  will  do  what  an  honorable  man 
should  do!" 

Deane's  rigid  body  relaxed,  and  he  sank  back 
on  his  blankets  with  a  sigh  of  relief. 

"I  worried — for  her,"  he  said.  "I've  always 
believed  in  a  God — though  I  killed  a  man — an' 
He  sent  you  here  in  time!"  A  sudden  ques- 
tioning light  came  into  his  eyes.  "The  man 
who  stole  little  Isobel,"  he  breathed  —  "who 
was  he?" 

"Pelliter —  the  man  out  there  —  killed  him 
when  he  came  to  the  cabin,"  said  Billy.  "He 
said  his  name  was  Blake — Jim  Blake." 

"Blake!  Blake!  Blake!"  Again  Deane's 
voice  rose  from  the  edge  of  death  to  a  shriek. 
"Blake,  you  say?  A  great  coarse  sailorman, 
with  red  hair — red  beard — yellow  teeth  like  a 
walrus!  Blake  —  Blake — "  He  sank  back 
again,  with  a  thrilling,  half -mad  laugh.  "Then 
— then  it's  all  been  a  mistake — a  funny  mis- 
take," he  said;  and  his  eyes  closed,  and  his  voice 
spoke  the  words  as  though  he  were  uttering 
them  from  out  of  a  dream. 

Billy  saw  that  the  end  was  near.     He  bent 
down  to  catch  the  dying  man's  last  words. 
Deane's  hands  were  as  cold  as  ice.     His  lips 
were  white.    And  then  Deane  whispered: 
11  iSS 


ISOBEL 

"We  fought— I  thought  I  killed  him— an* 
threw  him  into  the  sea.  His  right  name  was 
Samuelson.  You  knew  him — by  that  name — 
but  he  went  often — by  Blake — Jim  Blake.  So 
— so — I'm  not  a  murderer — after  all.  An'  he 
— he  came  back  for  revenge — and — stole — little 
— Isobel.  I'm — I'm — not — a — murderer.  You 
— you — will — tell — her.  You'll  tell  her — I  didn't 
kill  him — after  all.  You'll  tell  her — an* — be — 
good — good — " 

He  smiled.     Billy  bent  lower. 

"Again  I  swear  before  the  good  God  that  I 
will  do  what  an  honorable  man  should  do,"  he 
replied. 

Deane  made  no  answer.  He  did  not  hear. 
The  smile  did  not  fade  entirely  from  his  lips. 
But  Billy  knew  that  in  this  moment  death  had 
come  in  through  the  cabin  door.  With  a  groan 
of  anguish  he  dropped  Deane's  stiffening  hand. 
Little  Isobel  pattered  across  the  floor  to  his 
side.  She  laughed;  and  suddenly  Billy  turned 
and  caught  her  in  his  arms,  and,  crumpled  down 
there  on  the  floor  beside  the  one  brother  he  had 
known  in  life,  he  sobbed  like  a  woman. 


XIII 

THE  TWO   GODS 

IT  was  little  Isobel  who  pulled  MacVeigh 
together,  and  after  a  little  he  rose  with  her 
in  his  arms  and  turned  her  from  the  wall  while 
he  covered  Deane's  face  with  the  end  of  a 
blanket.  Then  he  went  to  the  door.  The 
Eskimos  were  building  fires.  Pelliter  was 
seated  on  the  sledge  a  short  distance  from  the 
cabin,  and  at  Billy's  call  he  came  toward  him. 

"If  you  don't  mind,  you  can  take  her  over 
to  one  of  the  fires  for  a  little  while,"  said  Billy. 
"Scottie  is  dead.  Try  and  make  the  chief 
understand." 

He  did  not  wait  for  Pelliter  to  question  him, 
but  closed  the  door  quietly  and  went  back  to 
Deane.  He  drew  off  the  blanket  and  gazed  for 
a  moment  into  the  still,  bearded  face. 

"My  Gawd,  an'  she's  waitin'  for  you,  'n' 
looking  for  you,  an'  thinks  you're  coming  back 
soon,"  he  whispered.  "You  'n'  the  kid!" 


ISOBEL 

Reverently  he  began  the  task  ahead  of  him. 
One  after  another  he  went  into  Deane's  pockets 
and  drew  forth  what  he  found.  In  one  pocket 
there  was  a  small  knife,  some  cartridges,  and  a 
match  box.  He  knew  that  Isobel  would  prize 
these  and  keep  them  because  her  husband  had 
carried  them,  and  he  placed  them  in  a  handker- 
chief along  with  other  things  he  found.  Last 
of  all  he  found  in  Deane's  breast  pocket  a  worn 
and  faded  envelope.  He  peered  into  the  open 
end  before  he  placed  it  on  the  little  pile,  and  his 
heart  gave  a  sudden  throb  when  he  saw  the 
blue  flower  petals  Isobel  had  given  him.  When 
he  was  done  he  crossed  Deane's  hands  upon  his 
breast.  He  was  tying  the  ends  of  the  handker- 
chief when  the  door  opened  softly  behind  him. 

The  little  dark  chief  entered.  He  was  fol- 
lowed by  four  other  Eskimos.  They  had  left 
their  weapons  outside.  They  seemed  scarcely 
to  breathe  as  they  ranged  themselves  in  a  line 
and  looked  down  upon  Scottie  Deane.  Not  a 
sign  of  emotion  came  into  their  expressionless 
faces,  not  the  flicker  of  an  eyelash  did  the  immo- 
bility of  their  faces  change.  In  a  low,  clacking 
monotone  they  began  to  speak,  and  there  was 
no  expression  of  grief  in  their  voices.  Yet 
Billy  understood  now  that  in  the  hearts  of  these 
158 


THE   TWO   GODS 

little  brown  men  Scottie  Deane  stood  enshrined 
like  a  god.  Before  he  was  cold  in  death  they 
had  come  to  chant  his  deeds  and  his  virtues  to 
the  unseen  spirits  who  would  wait  and  watch  at 
his  side  until  the  beginning  of  the  new  day.  For 
ten  minutes  the  monotone  continued.  Then  the 
five  men  turned  and  without  a  word,  without 
looking  at  him,  went  out  of  the  cabin.  Billy 
followed  them,  wondering  if  Deane  had  con- 
vinced them  that  he  and  Pelliter  were  his 
friends.  If  he  had  not  done  that  he  feared 
that  there  would  still  be  trouble  over  little 
Isobel.  He  was  delighted  when  he  found  Pelli- 
ter talking  with  one  of  the  men. 

"I've  found  a  flunkey  here  whose  lingo  I 
can  get  along  with,"  cried  Pelliter.  "I've  been 
telling  'em  what  bully  friends  we  are,  and 
have  made  'em  understand  all  about  Blake. 
I've  shaken  hands  with  them  all  three  or  four 
times,  and  we  feel  pretty  good.  Better  mix  a 
little.  They  don't  like  the  idea  of  giving  us  the 
kid,  now  that  Scottie's  dead.  They're  asking 
for  the  woman." 

Half  an  hour  later  MacVeigh  and  Pelliter 
returned  to  the  cabin.  At  the  end  of  that  time 
he  was  confident  that  the  Eskimos  would  give 
them  no  further  trouble  and  that  they  expected 


ISOBEL 

to  leave  Isobel  in  their  possession.  The  chief, 
however,  had  given  Billy  to  understand  that 
they  reserved  the  right  to  bury  Deane. 

Billy  felt  that  he  was  now  in  a  position  where 
he  would  have  to  tell  Pelliter  some  of  the 
things  that  had  happened  to  him  on  his  return 
to  Churchill.  He  had  reported  Deane's  death 
as  having  occurred  weeks  before  as  the  result  of 
a  fall,  and  when  he  returned  to  Fort  Churchill 
he  knew  that  he  would  have  to  stick  to  that 
story.  Unless  Pelliter  knew  of  Isobel,  his  love 
for  her,  and  his  own  defiance  of  the  Law  in 
giving  them  their  freedom,  his  comrade  might 
let  out  the  truth  and  ruin  him. 

In  the  cabin  they  sat  down  at  the  table. 
Pelliter's  arm  was  in  a  sling.  His  face  was 
drawn  and  haggard  and  blackened  by  powder. 
He  drew  his  revolver,  emptied  it  of  cartridges, 
and  gave  it  to  little  Isobel  to  play  with.  He 
kept  up  his  spirits  among  the  Eskimos,  but 
he  made  no  effort  to  conceal  his  dejection 
now. 

"I've  lost  her,"  he  said,  looking  at  Billy. 
"You're  going  to  take  her  to  her  mother?" 

"Yes." 

"It  hurts.    You  don't  know  how  it's  goin'  to 
hurt  to  lose  her,"  he  said. 
160 


THE   TWO   GODS 

MacVeigh  leaned  across  the  table  and  spoke 
earnestly. 

"Yes,  I  know  what  it  means,  Pelly,"  he  re- 
plied. ' '  I  know  what  it  means  to  love  some  one 
— and  lose.  I  know.  Listen." 

Quickly  he  told  Pelliter  the  story  of  the 
Barren,  of  the  coming  of  Isobel,  the  mother,  of 
the  kiss  she  had  given  him,  and  of  the  flight,  the 
pursuit,  the  recapture,  and  of  that  final  moment 
when  he  had  taken  the  steel  cuffs  from  Deane's 
wrists.  Once  he  had  begun  the  story  he  left 
nothing  untold,  even  to  the  division  of  the  blue- 
flower  petals  and  the  tress  of  Isobel's  hair. 
He  drew  both  from  his  pocket  and  showed  them 
to  Pelliter,  and  at  the  tremble  in  his  voice  there 
came  a  mistiness  in  his  comrade's  eyes.  When 
he  had  finished  Pelliter  reached  across  with 
his  one  good  arm  and  gripped  the  other's 
hand. 

"An'  what  she  said  about  the  blue  flower  is 
comin'  true,  Billy,"  he  whispered.  "It's  bring- 
ing happiness  to  you,  just  as  she  said,  for  you're 
going  down  to  her — " 

MacVeigh  interrupted  him. 

"No,  it's  not,"  he  said,  softly.  "She  loved 
him — as  much  as  the  girl  down  there  will  ever 
love  you,  Pelly,  and  when  I  tell  her  what  has 
161 


ISOBEL 

happened — her  heart  will  break.  That  can't 
bring  happiness — for  me!" 

The  hours  of  that  day  bore  leaden  weights  for 
Billy.  The  two  men  made  their  plans.  A  num- 
ber of  the  Eskimos  agreed  to  accompany  Pelli- 
ter  as  far  as  Eskimo  Point,  whence  he  would 
make  his  way  alone  to  Churchill.  Billy  would 
strike  south  to  the  Little  Beaver  in  search  of 
Couchee's  cabin  and  Isobel.  He  was  glad  when 
night  came.  It  was  late  when  he  went  to  the 
door,  opened  it,  and  looked  out. 

In  the  edge  of  the  timber-line  it  was  black, 
black  not  only  with  the  gloom  of  night,  but 
with  the  concentrated  darkness  of  spruce  and 
balsam  and  a  sky  so  low  and  thick  that  one 
could  almost  hear  the  wailing  swish  of  it  over- 
head like  the  steady  sobbing  of  surf  on  a  sea- 
shore. It  was  black,  save  for  the  small  circles 
of  light  made  by  the  Eskimo  fires,  about  which 
half  a  hundred  of  the  little  brown  men  sat  or 
crouched.  The  masters  of  the  camp  were  all 
awake,  but  twice  as  many  dogs,  exhausted  and 
footsore,  lay  curled  in  heaps,  as  inanimate  as 
if  dead.  There  was  present  a  strange  silence 
and  a  strange  and  unnatural  gloom  that  was 
not  of  the  night  alone,  a  silence  broken  only  by 
the  low  moaning  of  the  wind  out  on  the  Barren, 
162 


THE   TWO   GODS 

the  restlessness  in  the  air  above  the  tree-tops, 
and  the  crackling  of  the  fires.  The  Eskimos 
were  as  motionless  as  so  many  dead  men. 
Their  round,  expressionless  eyes  were  wide  open. 
They  sat  or  crouched  with  their  backs  to  the 
Barren,  their  faces  turned  into  the  still  deeper 
blackness  of  the  forest.  Some  distance  away, 
like  a  star,  there  gleamed  the  small  and  steady 
light  in  the  cabin  window.  For  two  hours  the 
eyes  of  those  about  the  fires  had  been  fixed 
on  that  light.  And  at  intervals  there  had  risen 
from  among  the  stony-faced  watchers  the  little 
chief,  whose  clacking  voice  joined  for  a  few 
moments  each  time  the  wailing  of  the  wind,  the 
swish  of  the  low-hanging  sky,  and  the  crackling 
of  the  fires.  But  there  was  sound  of  no  other 
voice  or  movement.  He  alone  moved  and 
spoke,  for  to  the  others  the  clacking  sounds  he 
made  was  speech,  words  spoken  each  time  for 
the  man  who  lay  dead  in  the  cabin. 

A  dozen  times  Pelliter  and  MacVeigh  had 
looked  out  to  the  fires,  and  looked  each  time  at 
the  hour.  This  time  Billy  said: 

"They're  moving,  Pelly!    They're  jumping 

to  their  feet  and  coming  this  way!"     He  looked 

at  his  watch  again.     "They're  mighty  good 

guessers.     It's  a  quarter  after  twelve.     When 

163 


ISOBEL 

a  chief  or  a  big  man  dies  they  bury  him  in  the 
first  hour  of  the  new  day.  They're  coming  after 
Deane." 

He  opened  the  door  and  stepped  out  into  the 
night.  Pelliter  joined  him.  The  Eskimos  ad- 
vanced without  a  sound  and  stopped  in  a 
shadowy  group  twenty  paces  from  the  cabin. 
Five  of  these  little  fur-clad  men  detached  them- 
selves from  the  others  and  filed  into  the  cabin, 
with  the  chief  man  at  their  head.  As  they  bent 
over  Deane  they  began  to  chant  a  low  monotone 
which  awakened  little  Isobel,  who  sat  up  and 
stared  sleepily  at  the  strange  scene.  Billy  went 
to  her  and  gathered  her  close  in  his  arms.  She 
was  sleeping  again  when  he  put  her  down  among 
the  blankets.  The  Eskimos  were  gone  with 
their  burden.  He  could  hear  the  low  chanting 
of  the  tribe. 

"I  found  her,  and  I  thought  she  was  mine," 
said  Pelliter's  low  voice  at  his  side.  "But  she 
ain't,  Billy.  She's  yours." 

MacVeigh  broke  in  on  him  as  though  he  had 
not  heard. 

"You  better  get  to  bed,  Pelly,"  he  warned. 
"That  arm  needs  rest.  I'm  going  out  to  see 
where  they  bury  him." 

He  put  on  his  cap  and  heavy  coat  and  went 
164 


THE   TWO   GODS 

as  far  as  the  door,  then  turned  back.     From 
his  kit  he  took  a  belt-ax  and  nails. 

The  wind  was  blowing  more  strongly  over 
the  Barren,  and  MacVeigh  could  no  longer  hear 
the  low  lament  of  the  Eskimos.  He  moved 
toward  their  fires,  and  found  them  deserted  of 
men,  only  the  dogs  remaining  in  their  deathlike 
sleep.  And  then,  far  down  the  edge  of  the  tim- 
ber, he  saw  a  flare  of  light.  Five  minutes  later 
he  stood  hidden  in  a  deep  shadow,  a  few  paces 
from  the  Eskimos.  They  had  dug  the  grave 
early  in  the  evening,  out  on  the  great  snow- 
plain,  free  of  the  trees ;  and  as  the  fire  they  had 
built  lighted  up  their  dark,  round  faces  Mac- 
Veigh saw  the  five  little  black  men  who  had 
borne  forth  Scottie  Deane  leaning  over  the 
shallow  hole  in  the  frozen  earth.  Scottie  was  al- 
ready gone.  The  earth  and  ice  and  frozen  moss 
were  falling  in  upon  him,  and  not  a  sound  fell 
now  from  the  thick  lips  of  his  savage  mourners. 
In  a  few  minutes  the  crude  work  was  done, 
and  like  a  thin  black  shadow  the  natives  filed 
back  to  their  camp.  Only  one  remained,  sit- 
ting cross-legged  at  the  head  of  the  grave, 
his  long  narwhal  spear  at  his  back.  It  was 
O-gluck-gluck,  the  Eskimo  chief,  guarding  the 
dead  man  from  the  devils  who  come  to  steal 
165 


ISOBEL 

body  and  soul  during  the  first  few  hours  of 
burial. 

Billy  went  deeper  into  the  forest  until  he 
found  a  thin,  straight  sapling,  which  he  cut 
down  with  half  a  dozen  strokes  of  his  belt-ax. 
From  the  sapling  he  stripped  the  bark,  and  then 
he  chopped  off  a  third  of  its  length  and  nailed  it 
crosswise  to  what  remained.  After  that  he 
sharpened  the  bottom  end  and  returned  to  the 
grave,  carrying  the  cross  over  his  shoulder. 
Stripped  to  whiteness,  it  gleamed  in  the  fire- 
light. The  Eskimo  watcher  stared  at  it  for  a 
moment,  his  dull  eyes  burning  darker  in  the 
night,  for  he  knew  that  after  this  two  gods,  and 
not  one,  were  to  guard  the  grave.  Billy  drove 
the  cross  deep,  and  as  the  blows  of  his  ax  fell 
upon  it  the  Eskimo  slunk  back  until  he  was 
swallowed  in  the  gloom.  When  MacVeigh  was 
done  he  pulled  off  his  cap.  But  it  was  not  to 
pray. 

"I'm  sorry,  old  man,"  he  said  to  what  was 
under  the  cross.  "God  knows  I'm  sorry.  I 
wish  you  was  alive.  I  wish  you  was  going  back 
to  her — with  the  kid — instid  o'  me.  But  I'll 
keep  that  promise.  I  swear  it.  I'll  do — what's 
right — by  her." 

From  the  forest  he  looked  back.  The  Eskimo 
166 


THE   TWO   GODS 

chief  had  returned  to  his  somber  watch.  The 
cross  gleamed  a  ghostly  white  against  the  thick 
blackness  of  the  Barren.  He  turned  his  face 
away  for  the  last  time,  and  there  filled  him  the 
oppression  of  a  leaden  hand,  a  thing  that  was 
both  dread  and  fear.  Scottie  Deane  was  dead — 
dead  and  in  his  grave,  and  yet  he  walked  with 
him  now  at  his  side.  He  could  feel  the  pres- 
ence, and  that  presence  was  like  a  warning, 
stirring  strange  thoughts  within  him.  He 
turned  back  to  the  cabin  and  entered  softly. 
Pelliter  was  asleep.  Little  Isobel  was  breath- 
ing the  sweet  forgetfulness  of  childhood.  He 
stooped  and  kissed  her  silken  curls,  and  for  a 
long  time  he  stood  with  one  of  those  soft  curls 
between  his  fingers.  In  a  few  years  more,  he 
thought,  it  would  be  the  darker  gold  and  brown 
of  the  woman's  hair — of  the  woman  he  loved. 
Slowly  a  great  peace  entered  into  him.  After 
all,  there  was  more  than  hope  ahead  for  him. 
She — the  older  Isobel — knew  that  he  loved  her 
as  no  other  man  in  the  world  could  love  her. 
He  had  given  proof  of  that.  And  now  he  was 
going  to  her. 


XIV 

THE    SNOW-MAN 

A?TER  his  return  from  the  scene  of  burial 
Billy  undressed,  put  out  the  light,  and 
went  to  bed.  He  fell  asleep  quickly,  and  his 
slumber  was  filled  with  many  dreams.  They 
were  sweet  and  joyous  at  first,  and  he  lived  again 
his  first  meeting  with  the  woman;  he  was  once 
more  in  the  presence  of  her  beauty,  her  purity, 
her  faith  and  confidence  in  him.  And  then 
more  trouble  visions  came  to  him.  He  awoke 
twice,  and  each  time  he  sat  up,  filled  with  the 
shuddering  dread  that  had  come  to  him  at  the 
graveside. 

A  third  time  he  awakened,  and  he  struck  a 
match  to  look  at  his  watch.  It  was  four  o'clock. 
He  was  still  exhausted.  His  limbs  ached  from 
the  tremendous  strain  of  the  fifty-mile  race 
across  the  Barren,  but  he  could  no  longer  sleep. 
Something — he  did  not  attempt  to  ask  himself 
what  it  was — was  urging  him  to  action.  He 
got  up  and  dressed. 

168 


THE    SNOW-MAN 

When  Pelliter  awoke  two  hours  later  Mac- 
Veigh's  pack  and  sledge  were  ready  for  the  trip 
south.  While  they  ate  their  breakfast  the  two 
men  finished  their  plans.  When  the  hour  of 
parting  came  Billy  left  his  comrade  alone  with 
little  Isobel  and  went  out  to  hitch  up  the  dogs. 
When  he  returned  there  was  a  fresh  redness  in 
Pelliter's  eyes,  and  he  puffed  out  thick  clouds 
of  smoke  from  his  pipe  to  hide  his  face.  Mac- 
Veigh  thought  of  that  parting  often  in  the  days 
that  followgi.  Pelliter  stood  last  in  the  door, 
and  in  his  face  was  a  look  which  MacVeigh 
wished  that  he  had  not  seen.  In  his  own  heart 
was  the  dread  and  the  fear,  the  thing  which  he 
could  not  name. 

For  hours  he  could  not  shake  off  the  gloom 
that  oppressed  him.  He  strode  at  the  head  of 
old  Kazan,  the  leader,  striking  a  course  due 
south  by  compass.  When  he  fell  back  for  the 
third  time  to  look  at  little  Isobel  he  found  the 
child  buried  deep  in  her  blankets  sound  asleep. 
She  did  not  awake  until  he  stopped  to  make 
tea  at  noon.  It  was  four  o'clock  when  he  halted 
again  to  make  camp  in  the  shelter  of  a  clump  of 
tall  spruce.  Isobel  had  slept  most  of  the  day. 
She  was  wide  awake  now,  laughing  at  him  as  he 
dug  her  out  of  her  nest. 
169 


ISOBEL 

"Give  me  a  kiss,"  he  demanded. 

Isobel  complied,  putting  her  two  little  hands 
to  his  face. 

"You're  a — a  little  peach,"  he  cried.  "There 
ain't  been  a  whimper  out  of  you  all  day.  And 
now  we're  going  to  have  a  fire — a  big  fire." 

He  set  about  his  work,  whistling  for  the  first 
time  since  morning.  He  set  up  his  silk  Service 
tent,  cut  spruce  and  balsam  boughs  until  he 
had  them  a  foot  deep  inside,  and  then  dragged 
in  wood  for  half  an  hour.  By  that  time  it  was 
dark  and  the  big  fire  was  softening  the  snow 
for  thirty  feet  around.  He  had  taken  off  Iso- 
bel's  thick,  swaddling  coat,  and  the  child's 
pretty  face  shone  pink  in  the  fireglow.  The 
light  danced  red  and  gold  in  her  tangled  curls, 
and  as  they  ate  supper,  both  on  the  same  blan- 
ket, Billy  saw  opposite  him  more  and  more  of 
what  he  knew  he  would  find  in  the  woman. 
When  they  had  finished  he  produced  a  small 
pocket  comb  and  drew  Isobel  close  up  to  him. 
One  by  one  he  smoothed  the  tangles  out  of  her 
curls,  his  heart  beating  joyously  as  the  silken 
touch  of  them  ran  through  his  fingers.  Once 
he  had  felt  that  same  soft  touch  of  the  woman's 
hair  against  his  face.  It  had  been  an  accidental 
caress,  but  he  had  treasured  it  in  his  memory. 
170 


THE    SNOW-MAN 

It  seemed  real  again  now,  and  the  thrill  of  it 
made  him  place  little  Isobel  alone  again  on  the 
blanket,  while  he  rose  to  his  feet.  He  threw 
fresh  fuel  on  the  fire,  and  then  he  found  that 
the  warmth  had  softened  the  snow  until  it  clung 
to  his  feet.  The  discovery  gave  him  an  inspira- 
tion. A  warmth  that  was  not  of  the  fire  leaped 
into  his  face,  and  he  gathered  up  the  softened 
snow,  raking  it  into  piles  with  a  snow-shoe; 
and  before  Isobel's  astonished  and  delighted 
eyes  there  grew  into  shape  a  snow-man  almost 
as  big  as  himself.  He  gave  it  arms  and  a  head, 
and  eyes  of  charred  wood,  and  when  it  was  done 
he  placed  his  own  cap  on  the  crown  of  it  and 
his  pipe  in  its  mouth.  Little  Isobel  screamed 
with  delight,  and  together,  hand  in  hand,  they 
danced  around  and  around  it,  just  as  he  and  the 
other  girls  and  boys  had  danced  years  and  years 
ago.  And  when  they  stopped  there  were  tears 
of  laughter  and  joy  in  the  child's  eyes  and  a 
filmy  mist  of  another  sort  in  Billy's. 

It  was  the  snow-man  that  brought  back  to 
him  years  and  years  of  lost  hopes.  They  flooded 
in  upon  him  until  it  seemed  as  though  the  old  life 
was  the  life  of  yesterday  and  waiting  for  him  now 
just  beyond  the  edge  of  the  black  forest.  Long 
after  Isobel  was  asleep  in  the  tent  he  sat  and 
12  171 


ISOBEL 

looked  at  the  snow-man;  and  more  and  more 
his  heart  sang  with  a  new  joy,  until  it  seemed  as 
though  he  must  rise  and  cry  out  in  the  eagerness 
and  hope  that  filled  him.  In  the  snow-man, 
slowly  melting  before  the  fire,  there  was  a  heart 
and  a  soul  and  voice.  It  was  calling  to  him, 
urging  him  as  nothing  in  the  world  had  ever 
urged  him  before.  He  would  go  back  to  the 
old  home  down  in  God's  country,  to  the  old 
playmates  who  were  men  and  women  now. 
They  would  welcome  him — and  they  would  wel- 
come the  woman.  For  he  would  take  her. 
For  the  first  time  he  made  himself  believe  that 
she  would  go.  And  there,  hand  in  hand,  they 
would  follow  his  boyhood  footprints  over  the 
meadows  and  through  the  hills,  and  he  would 
gather  flowers  for  her  in  place  of  the  mother 
that  was  gone,  and  he  would  tell  her  all  the  old 
stories  of  the  days  that  were  passed. 
It  was  the  snow-man! 


XV 

LE  MORT  ROUGE — AND  ISOBEL 

UNTIL  late  that  night  Billy  sat  beside  his 
campfire  with  the  snow -man.  Strange 
and  new  thoughts  had  come  to  him,  and 
among  these  was  the  wondering  one  asking 
himself  why  he  had  never  built  a  snow-man 
before.  'When  he  went  to  bed  he  dreamed  of 
the  snow-man  and  of  little  Isobel ;  and  the  little 
girl's  laughter  and  happiness  when  she  saw  the 
curious  form  the  dissolving  snow-man  had  taken 
in  the  heat  of  the  fire  when  she  awoke  the  follow- 
ing morning  filled  him  again  with  those  boyish 
visions  of  happiness  that  he  had  seen  just  ahead 
of  him.  At  other  times  he  would  have  told  him- 
self that  he  was  no  longer  reasonable.  After 
they  had  breakfasted  and  started  on  the  day's 
journey  he  laughed  and  talked  with  baby  Isobel, 
and  a  dozen  times  in  the  forenoon  he  picked  her 
up  in  his  arms  and  carried  her  behind  the  dogs. 
"We're  going  home,"  he  kept  telling  her  over 


ISOBEL 

and  over  again.  "We're  going  home — down  to 
mama — mama — mama!"  He  emphasized  that; 
and  each  time  Isobel's  pretty  mouth  formed 
the  word  mama  after  him  his  heart  leaped 
exultantly.  By  the  end  of  that  day  it  had 
become  the  sweetest  word  in  the  world  to  him. 
He  tried  mother,  but  his  little  comrade  looked 
at  him  blankly,  and  he  did  not  like  it  himself. 
"Mama,  mama,  mama,1'  he  said  a  hundred  times 
that  night  beside  their  campfire,  and  before  he 
tucked  her  away  in  her  warm  blankets  he  said 
something  to  her  about  "Now  I  lay  me  down 
to  sleep."  Isobel  was  too  tired  and  sleepy  to 
comprehend  much  of  that.  Even  after  she  was 
deep  in  slumber  and  Billy  sat  alone  smoking 
his  pipe  he  whispered  that  sweetest  word  in  the 
world  to  himself,  and  took  out  the  tress  of 
shining  hair  and  gazed  at  it  joyously  in  the  glow 
of  the  fire.  By  the  end  of  the  next  day  little 
Isobel  could  say  almost  the  whole  of  the 
prayer  his  own  mother  had  taught  him  years  and 
years  and  years  ago,  so  far  back  that  his  vision 
of  her  was  not  that  of  a  woman,  but  of  an  elusive 
and  wonderful  angel;  and  the  fourth  day  at 
noon  she  lisped  the  whole  of  it  without  a  word 
of  assistance  from  him. 

On  the  morning  of  the  fifth  day  Billy  struck 


LE   MORT   ROUGE 

the  Gray  Beaver,  and  little  Isobel  grew  serious 
at  the  change  in  him.  He  no  longer  amused 
her,  but  urged  the  dogs  along,  never  for  an  in- 
stant relaxing  his  vigilant  quest  for  a  sign  of 
smoke,  a  trail,  a  blazed  tree.  At  his  heart  there 
began  to  burn  a  suspense  that  was  almost 
suffocating.  In  these  last  hours  before  he  was 
to  see  Isobel  there  came  the  inevitable  reaction 
within  him.  Gloom  oppressed  him  where  a 
little  while  before  joyous  anticipation  had  given 
him  hope.  The  one  terrible  thought  drove  out 
all  others  now — he  was  bringing  her  news  of 
death,  her  husband's  death.  And  to  Isobel  he 
knew  that  Deane  had  meant  all  that  the  world 
held  of  joy  or  hope — Deane  and  the  baby. 

It  was  like  a  shock  when  he  came  suddenly 
upon  the  cabin,  in  the  edge  of  a  small  clearing. 
For  a  moment  he  hesitated.  Then  he  took 
Isobel  in  his  arms  and  went  to  the  door.  It  was 
slightly  ajar,  and  after  knocking  upon  it  with 
his  fist  he  thrust  it  open  and  entered. 

There  was  no  one  in  the  room  in  which  he 
found  himself,  but  there  was  a  stove  and  a  fire. 
At  the  end  of  the  room  was  a  second  door,  and 
it  opened  slowly.  In  another  moment  Isobel 
stood  there.  He  had  never  seen  her  as  he  saw 
her  now,  with  the  light  from  a  window  falling 


ISOBEL 

upon  her.  She  was  dressed  in  a  loose  gown,  and 
her  long  hair  fell  in  disheveled  profusion  over 
her  shoulders  and  bosom.  MacVeigh  would 
have  cried  out  her  name — he  had  told  himself  a 
hundred  times  what  he  would  first  say  to  her — 
but  what  he  saw  in  her  face  startled  him  and 
held  him  silent  while  their  eyes  met.  Her 
cheeks  were  flushed.  Her  lips  burned  an  un- 
natural red.  Her  eyes  were  glowing  with 
strange  fires.  She  looked  at  him  first,  and  her 
hands  clutched  at  her  bosom,  crumpling  the 
masses  of  her  lustrous  hair.  Not  until  she  had 
looked  into  his  eyes  did  she  recognize  what 
he  carried  in  his  arms.  When  he  held  the  child 
out  to  her  she  sprang  forward  with  the  strangest 
cry  he  had  ever  heard. 

"My  baby!"  she  almost  shrieked.  "My 
baby — my  baby- 
She  staggered  back  and  sank  into  a  chair  near 
a  table,  with  little  Isobel  clasped  to  her  breast. 
For  a  time  Billy  heard  only  those  words  in  her 
dry,  sobbing  voice  as  she  crushed  her  burning 
face  down  against  her  child's.  He  knew  that 
she  was  sick,  that  it  was  fever  which  had  sent 
the  hot  flush  into  her  cheeks.  He  gulped  hard, 
and  went  near  to  her.  Trembling,  he  put  out  a 
hand  and  touched  her.  She  looked  up.  A  bit 
176 


LE    MORT    ROUGE 

of  that  old,  glorious  light  leaped  into  her  eyes, 
the  light  which  he  had  seen  when  in  gratitude 
she  had  given  him  her  lips  to  kiss. 

"You?"  she  whispered.  "You — brought 
her—" 

She  caught  his  hand,  and  the  soft  smother  of 
her  loose  hair  fell  over  it.  He  could  feel  the 
quick  rise  and  fall  of  her  bosom. 

"Yes,"  he  said. 

There  was  a  demand  in  her  face,  her  eyes,  her 
parted  lips.  He  went  on,  her  hand  clasping  his 
tighter,  until  he  could  feel  the  swift  beating  of 
her  heart.  He  had  never  thought  that  he  could 
tell  the  story  in  as  few  words  as  he  told  it  now, 
with  more  and  more  of  the  glorious  light  creep- 
ing into  Isobel's  eyes.  She  stopped  breathing 
when  he  told  her  of  the  fight  in  the  cabin  and 
the  death  of  the  man  who  had  stolen  little 
Isobel.  A  hundred  words  more  brought  him 
to  the  edge  of  the  forest.  He  stopped  there. 
But  she  still  questioned  him  in  silence.  She 
drew  him  down  nearer,  until  he  could  feel  her 
breath.  There  was  something  terrible  in  the 
demand  of  her  eyes.  He  tried  to  find  words  to 
say,  but  something  rose  up  in  his  throat  and 
choked  him.  She  saw  his  effort. 

"Go  on,"  she  said,  softly. 
177 


ISOBEL 

"And  then — I  brought  her  to  you,"  he  said. 

"You  met  him?" 

Her  question  was  so  sudden  that  it  startled 
him,  and  in  an  instant  he  had  betrayed  himself. 

Little  Isobel  slipped  to  the  floor,  and  Isobel 
stood  up.  She  came  near  to  him,  as  she  came 
that  marvelous  night  out  on  the  Barren,  and 
in  her  eyes  there  was  the  same  prayer  as  she 
put  her  two  hands  up  to  him  and  looked  straight 
into  his  face. 

He  thought  it  would  be  easier.  But  it  was 
terrible.  She  did  not  move.  No  sound  came 
from  her  tight-drawn  lips  as  he  told  her  of  the 
meeting  with  Deane,  and  of  her  husband's  ill- 
ness. She  guessed  what  was  coming  before  he 
had  spoken  it.  At  his  words,  telling  of  death, 
she  drew  away  from  him  slowly.  She  did  not 
cry  out.  Her  only  evidence  that  she  had 
heard  and  understood  was  the  low  moan  that 
fell  from  her  lips.  She  covered  her  face  with 
her  hands  and  stood  for  a  moment  an  arm's 
length  away,  and  in  that  moment  all  the  force 
of  his  great  love  for  her  swept  upon  MacVeigh 
in  an  overwhelming  flood.  He  opened  his  arms, 
longing  to  gather  her  into  them  and  comfort  her 
as  he  would  have  comforted  a  little  child.  In 
that  love  he  would  willingly  have  dropped  dead 
178 


LE    MORT    ROUGE 

at  her  feet  if  he  could  have  given  back  to  her  the 
man  she  had  lost.  She  raised  her  head  in  time 
to  see  his  outstretched  arms,  she  saw  the  love 
and  the  pleading  in  his  face,  and  into  her  own 
eyes  there  leaped  the  fire  of  a  tigress. 

"You — you — "  she  cried.  "It  was  you  who 
killed  him!  He  had  done  no  wrong — save  to 
protect  me  and  avenge  me  from  the  insult  of  a 
brute!  He  had  done  no  wrong.  But  the  Law 
—your  Law — set  you  after  him,  and  you  hunted 
him  like  a  beast ;  you  drove  him  from  our  home, 
from  me  and  the  baby.  You  hunted  him  until 
he  died  up  there — alone.  You — you  killed  him. ' ' 

With  a  sudden  cry  she  turned  and  caught  up 
little  Isobel  and  ran  toward  the  other  door. 
And  as  she  disappeared  into  the  room  from 
which  she  had  first  appeared  Billy  heard  her 
moaning  those  terrible  words. 

' '  You — you — you— 

Like  a  man  who  had  been  struck  a  blow  he 
swayed  back  to  the  outer  door.  Near  his  dogs 
and  sledge  he  met  Pierre  Couchee  and  his  half- 
French  wife  coming  in  from  their  trap  line.  He 
scarcely  knew  what  explanation  he  gave  to  the 
half-breed,  who  helped  him  to  put  up  his  tent. 
But  when  the  latter  left  to  follow  his  wife  into 
the  cabin  he  said : 

179 


ISOBEL 

"She  ess  seek,  ver'  seek.  An'  she  grow  more 
seek  each  day  until — mon  Dieu! — my  wife,  she 
ess  scare!" 

He  cut  a  few  balsam  boughs  and  spread  out 
his  blankets,  but  did  not  trouble  to  build  a  fire. 
When  the  half  Jbreed  returned  to  say  that  sup- 
per was  waiting  he  told  him  that  he  was  not 
hungry,  and  that  he  was  going  to  sleep.  He 
doubled  himself  up  under  his  blankets,  silent 
and  staring,  even  neglecting  to  feed  the  dogs. 
He  was  awake  when  the  stars  appeared.  He 
was  awake  when  the  moon  rose.  He  was 
still  awake  when  the  light  went  out  in  Pierre 
Couchee's  cabin.  The  snow-man  was  gone  from 
his  vision — home  and  hope.  He  had  never 
been  hurt  as  he  was  hurt  now.  He  was  yet 
awake  when  the  moon  passed  far  over  his  head, 
sank  behind  the  wilderness  to  the  west,  and 
blackness  came.  Toward  dawn  he  fell  into  an 
uneasy  slumber,  and  from  that  sleep  he  was 
awakened  by  Pierre  Couchee's  voice. 

When  he  opened  his  eyes  it  was  day,  and  the 
half-breed  stood  at  the  opening  of  the  tent. 
His  face  was  filled  with  horror.  His  voice  was 
almost  a  scream  when  he  saw  that  MacVeigh 
was  awake  and  sitting  up. 

' '  The  great  God  in  heaven !"  he  cried.  ' '  It  is 
180 


LE    MORT    ROUGE 

the  plague,  m'sieur — le  mart  rouge — the  small- 
pox! She  is  dying — " 

MacVeigh  was  on  his  feet,  gripping  him  by  the 
arms. 

He  turned  and  ran  toward  the  cabin,  and 
Billy  saw  that  the  half-breed's  team  was  har- 
nessed, and  that  Pierre's  wife  was  bringing 
forth  blankets  and  bundles.  He  did  not  wait 
to  question  them,  but  hurried  into  the  plague- 
stricken  cabin.  From  the  woman's  room  came 
a  low  moaning,  and  he  rushed  in  and  fell  upon 
his  knees  at  her  side.  Her  face  was  flushed 
with  the  fever,  half  hidden  in  the  disheveled 
masses  of  her  hair.  She  recognized  him,  and 
her  dark  eyes  burned  madly. 

"Take— the  baby!"  she  panted.  "My  God 
— go — go  with  her  !'* 

Tenderly  he  put  out  a  hand  and  stroked 
back  her  hair  from  her  face. 

"You  are  sick — sick  with  the  bad  fever,"  he 
said,  gently. 

"Yes — yes,  it  is  that.  I  did  not  think— 
until  last  night — what  it  might  be.  You — you 
love  me!  Then  take  her — take  the  baby  and 
go— go— go/" 

All  his  old  strength  came  back  to  him  now. 
He  felt  no  fear.  He  smiled  down  into  her  face, 
181 


ISOBEL 

and  the  silken  touch  of  her  hair  set  his  heart 
leaping  and  the  love  into  his  eyes. 

"I  will  take  her  out  there,"  he  said.  "But 
she  is  all  right — Isobel."  He  spoke  her  name 
almost  pleadingly.  "She  is  all  right.  She  will 
not  take  the  fever." 

He  picked  up  the  child  and  carried  her  out 
into  the  larger  room.  Pierre  and  his  wife  were 
at  the  door.  They  were  dressed  for  travel,  as  he 
had  seen  them  come  in  off  the  trap  line  the 
evening  before.  He  dropped  Isobel  and  sprang 
in  front  of  them. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  demanded.  "You 
are  not  going  away!  You  cannot  go!"  He 
turned  almost  fiercely  upon  the  woman.  "She 
will  die — if  you  do  not  stay  and  care  for  her. 
You  shall  not  run  away!" 

"It  is  the  plague,"  said  Pierre.  "It  is  death 
to  remain!" 

"You  shall  stay!"  said  MacVeigh,  still  speak- 
ing to  Pierre's  wife.  "You  are  the  one  woman 
— the  only  woman — within  a  hundred  miles. 
She  will  die  without  you.  You  shall  stay  if  I 
have  to  tie  you!" 

With  the  quickness  of  a  cat  Pierre  raised  the 
butt  of  the  heavy  dog-whip  which  he  held  in 
his  hand  and  it  came  down  with  a  sickening 
182 


LE    MORT    ROUGE 

thud  on  Billy's  head.  As  he  staggered  into 
the  middle  of  the  cabin  floor,  groping  blindly 
for  a  moment  before  he  fell,  he  heard  a  strange, 
terrified  cry,  and  in  the  open  inner  door  he  saw 
the  white-robed  figure  of  Isobel  Deane.  Then 
he  sank  down  into  a  pit  of  blackness. 

It  was  Isobel's  face  that  he  first  saw  when  he 
came  from  out  of  that  black  pit.  He  knew  that 
it  was  her  voice  calling  to  him  before  he  had 
opened  his  eyes.  He  felt  the  touch  of  her  hands, 
and  when  he  looked  up  her  loose,  soft  hair 
swept  his  breast.  His  head  was  bolstered  up, 
and  so  he  could  look  straight  into  her  face.  It 
frightened  him.  He  knew  now  what  she  had 
been  saying  to  him  as  he  lay  there  upon  the  floor. 

' '  You  must  get  up !  You  must  go !"  he  heard 
her  mooning.  "You  must  take  my  baby  away. 
And  you — you — must  go!" 

He  pulled  himself  half  erect,  then  rose  to  his 
feet,  swaying  a  little.  He  came  to  her  then, 
with  the  look  in  his  face  she  had  first  seen  out 
on  the  Barren  when  he  had  told  her  that  he 
was  going  with  her  through  the  forest. 

"No,  I  am  not  going  away,"  he  said,  firmly, 
and  yet  with  that  same  old  gentleness  in  his 
voice.  "If  I  go  you  will  die.  So  I  am  going 
to  stay." 

183 


ISOBEL 

She  stared  at  him,  speechless. 

"You — you  can't,"  she  gasped,  at  last. 
"Don't  you  see — don't  you  understand?  I'm 
a  woman — and  you  can't.  You  must  take  her 
— my  baby — and  go  for  help. " 

"There  is  no  help,"  said  MacVeigh,  quietly. 
"Within  a  few  hours  you  will  be  helpless.  I  am 
going  to  stay  and — and — I  swear  to  God  I  will 
care  for  you — as  he — would  have  done.  He 
made  me  promise  that — to  care  for  you — to 
stick  by  you — 

She  looked  straight  into  his  eyes.  He  saw 
the  twitching  of  her  throat,  the  quiver  of  her 
lips.  In  another  moment  she  would  have 
fallen  if  he  had  not  put  a  supporting  arm  about 
her. 

"If — anything — happens,"  she  gasped,  brok- 
enly, "you  will  take  care — of  her — my  baby — " 

"Yes — always." 

"And  if  I— get  well— " 

Her  head  swayed  dizzily  and  dropped  to  his 
breast. 

"If  I  get— well— " 

"Yes,"  he  urged.     "Yes—" 

"If  I—" 

He  saw  her  struggle  and  fail. 

"Yes,    I    know — I    understand,"    he   cried, 
184 


LE   MORT    ROUGE 

quickly,  as  she  grew  heavier  in  his  arms.  "If 
you  get  well  I  will  go.  I  swear  to  do  that. 
I  will  go  away.  No  one  will  ever  know — no 
one — in  the  whole  world.  And  I  will  be  good  to 
you — and  care  for  you — 

He  stopped,  brushed  back  her  hair,  and 
looked  into  her  face.  Then  he  carried  her  into 
the  inner  room;  and  when  he  came  out  little 
Isobel  was  crying. 

"You  poor  little  kid,"  he  cried,  and  caught 
her  up  in  his  arms.  "You  poor  little — 

The  child  smiled  at  him  through  her  tears, 
and  Billy  suddenly  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the 
table. 

"You've  been  a  little  brick  from  the  begin- 
ning, and  you're  going  to  keep  it  up,  little  one," 
he  said,  taking  her  pretty  face  between  his  two 
big  hands.  "You've  got  to  be  good,  for  we're 
going  to  have  a — a —  He  turned  away,  and 
finished  under  his  breath.  "We're  going  to 
have  a  devil  of  a  time!" 


XVI 

THE   LAW — MURDERER  OF   MEN 

O BATED  on  the  table,  little  Isobel  looked 
O  up  into  Billy's  face  and  laughed,  and  when 
the  laugh  ended  in  a  half  wail  Billy  found  that 
his  fingers  had  tightened  on  her  little  shoulder 
until  they  hurt.  He  tousled  her  hair  to  bring 
back  her  good-humor,  and  put  her  on  the  floor. 
Then  he  went  back  to  the  partly  open  door. 
It  was  quiet  in  the  darkened  room.  He  listened 
for  a  breath  or  a  sob,  and  could  hear  neither. 
A  curtain  was  drawn  over  the  one  window,  and 
he  could  but  indistinctly  make  out  the  darker 
shadow  where  Isobel  lay  on  the  bed.  His 
heart  beat  faster  as  he  softly  called  Isobel's 
name.  There  was  no  answer.  He  looked  back. 
Little  Isobel  had  found  something  on  the  floor 
and  was  amusing  herself  with  it.  Again  he 
called  the  mother,  and  still  there  was  no 
answer.  He  was  filled  with  a  sort  of  horror. 
He  wanted  to  go  over  to  the  dark  shadow  and 
1 86 


THE    LAW 

assure  himself  that  she  was  breathing,  but  a 
hand  seemed  to  thrust  him  back.  And  then, 
piercing  him  like  a  knife,  there  came  again 
those  low,  moaning  words  of  accusation: 

"It  was  you — it  was  you — it  was  you — " 

In  that  voice,  low  and  moaning  as  it  was,  he 
recognized  some  of  Pelliter's  madness.  It  was 
the  fever.  He  fell  back  a  step  and  drew  a  hand 
across  his  forehead.  It  was  damp,  clammy  with 
a  cold  perspiration.  He  felt  a  burning  pain 
where  he  had  been  struck,  and  a  momentary 
dizziness  made  him  stagger.  Then,  with  a  tre- 
mendous effort,  he  threw  himself  together  and 
turned  to  the  little  girl.  As  he  carried  her  out 
through  the  door  into  the  fresh  air  Isobel's 
feverish  words  still  followed  him: 

"It  was  you — you — you — you!" 

The  cold  air  did  him  good,  and  he  hurried 
toward  the  tent  with  baby  Isobel.  As  he  de- 
posited her  among  the  blankets  and  bearskins 
the  hopelessness  of  his  position  impressed  itself 
swiftly  upon  him.  The  child  could  not  remain 
in  the  cabin,  and  yet  she  would  not  be  immune 
from  danger  in  the  tent,  for  he  would  have  to 
spend  a  part  of  his  time  with  her.  He  shud- 
dered as  he  thought  of  what  it  might  mean. 
For  himself  he  had  no  fear  of  the  dread  disease 

13  187 


ISOBEL 

that  had  stricken  Isobel.  He  had  run  the  risk 
of  contagion  several  times  before  and  had  re- 
mained unscathed,  but  his  soul  trembled  with 
fear  as  he  looked  into  little  Isobel's  bright  blue 
eyes  and  tenderly  caressed  the  soft  curls  about 
her  face.  If  Couchee  and  his  wife  had  only 
taken  her!  At  thought  of  them  he  sprang 
suddenly  to  his  feet. 

"Looky,  little  one,  you've  got  to  stay  here!" 
he  commanded.  "Understand?  I'm  going  to 
pin  down  the  tent-flap,  and  you  mustn't  cry. 
If  I  don't  get  that  damned  half-breed,  dead  or 
alive,  my  name  ain't  Billy  MacVeigh." 

He  fastened  the  tent-flap  so  that  Isobel  could 
not  escape,  and  left  her  alone,  quiet  and  wonder- 
ing. Loneliness  was  not  new  to  her.  Solitude 
did  not  frighten  her;  and,  listening  with  his  ear 
close  to  the  canvas,  Billy  soon  heard  her  playing 
with  the  armful  of  things  he  had  scattered 
about  her.  He  hurried  to  the  dogs  and  har- 
nessed them  to  the  sledge.  Couchee  and  his 
wife  did  not  have  over  half  an  hour  the  start 
of  him — three-quarters  at  the  most.  He  would 
run  the  race  of  his  life  for  an  hour  or  two,  over- 
take them,  and  bring  them  back  at  the  point  of 
his  revolver.  If  there  had  to  be  a  fight  he 
would  fight. 

1 88 


THE    LAW 

Where  the  trail  struck  into  the  forest  he  hesi- 
tated, wondering  if  he  would  not  make  better 
speed  by  leaving  the  team  and  sledge  behind. 
The  excited  actions  of  the  dogs  decided  him. 
They  were  sniffing  at  the  scent  left  in  the  snow 
by  the  rival  huskies,  and  were  waiting  eagerly 
for  the  command  to  pursue.  Billy  snapped  his 
whip  over  their  heads. 

"You  want  a  fight,  do  you,  boys?"  he  cried. 
"So  do  I.  Get  on  with  you!  M'hoosh! 
M'hoosh!" 

Billy  dropped  upon  his  knees  on  the  sledge  as 
the  dogs  leaped  ahead.  They  needed  no  gui- 
dance, but  followed  swiftly  in  Couchee's  trail. 
Five  minutes  later  they  broke  into  thin  timber, 
and  then  came  out  into  a  narrow  plain,  dotted 
with  stunted  scrub,  through  which  ran  the 
Beaver.  Here  the  snow  was  soft  and  drifted, 
and  Billy  ran  behind,  hanging  to  the  tail-rope 
to  keep  the  sledge  from  leaving  him  if  the  dogs 
should  develop  an  unexpected  spurt.  He  could 
see  that  Couchee  was  exerting  every  effort  to 
place  distance  between  himself  and  the  plague- 
stricken  cabin,  and  it  suddenly  struck  Billy  that 
something  besides  fear  of  le  mort  rouge  was 
adding  speed  to  his  heels.  It  was  evident  that 
the  half-breed  was  spurred  on  by  the  thought 
189 


ISOBEL 

of  the  blow  he  had  struck  in  the  cabin.  Pos- 
sibly he  believed  that  he  was  a  murderer,  and 
Billy  smiled  as  he  observed  where  Couchee  had 
whipped  his  dogs  at  a  run  through  the  soft 
drifts.  He  brought  his  own  team  down  to  a 
walk,  convinced  that  the  half-breed  had  lost  his 
head,  and  that  he  would  bush  himself  and  his 
dogs  within  a  few  miles.  He  was  confident 
now  that  he  would  overtake  them  somewhere 
on  the  plain. 

With  the  elation  of  this  thought  there  came 
again  the  sudden,  sickening  pain  in  his  head. 
It  was  over  in  an  instant,  but  in  that  moment 
the  snow  had  turned  black,  and  he  had  flung 
out  his  arms  to  keep  himself  from  falling. 
The  babiche  rope  had  slipped  from  his  hand, 
and  when  things  cleared  before  his  eyes  again 
the  sledge  was  twenty  yards  ahead  of  him.  He 
overtook  it,  and  dropped  upon  it,  panting  as 
though  he  had  run  a  race.  He  laughed  as  he 
recovered  himself,  and  looked  over  the  gray 
backs  of  the  tugging  dogs,  but  in  the  same 
breath  the  laugh  was  cut  short  on  his  lips.  It 
was  as  if  a  knife-blade  had  run  in  one  lightning 
thrust  from  the  back  of  his  neck  to  his  brain, 
and  he  fell  forward  on  his  face  with  a  cry  of 
pain.  After  all,  Couchee's  blow  had  done  the 
190 


THE   LAW 

work.  He  realized  that,  and  made  an  effort  to 
call  the  dogs  to  a  stop.  For  five  minutes  they 
went  on,  unheeding  the  half-dozen  weak  com- 
mands that  he  called  out  from  the  darkness  that 
had  fallen  thickly  about  him.  When  at  last  he 
pulled  himself  up  from  his  face  and  the  snow 
turned  white  again,  the  dogs  had  halted.  They 
were  tangled  in  their  traces  and  sniffing  at  the 
snow. 

Billy  sat  up.  Darkness  and  pain  left  him  as 
swiftly  as  they  had  come.  He  saw  Couchee's 
trail  ahead,  and  then  he  looked  at  the  dogs. 
They  had  swung  at  right  angles  to  the  sledge 
and  had  pulled  the  nose  of  it  deep  into  a  drift. 
With  a  sharp  cry  of  command  he  sent  the  lash 
of  his  whip  among  them  and  went  to  the  lead- 
er's head.  The  dogs  slunk  to  their  bellies, 
snarling  at  him. 

"What  the  devil — "  he  began,  and  stopped. 

He  stared  at  the  snow.  Straight  out  from 
Couchee's  trail  there  ran  another — a  snow-shoe 
trail.  For  a  moment  he  thought  that  Couchee 
or  his  wife  had  for  some  reason  struck  out  a 
distance  from  their  sledge.  A  second  glance 
assured  him  that  in  this  supposition  he  was 
wrong.  Both  the  half-breed  and  his  wife  wore 
the  long,  narrow  "bush"  snow-shoes,  and  this 
191 


ISOBEL 

second  trail  was  made  by  the  big,  basket- 
shaped  shoes  worn  by  Indians  and  trappers  on 
the  Barrens.  In  addition  to  this,  the  trail  was 
well  beaten.  Whoever  had  traveled  it  recently 
had  gone  over  it  many  times  before,  and  Billy 
gave  utterance  to  his  joy  in  a  low  cry.  He 
had  struck  a  trap  line.  The  trapper's  cabin 
could  not  be  far  away,  and  the  trapper  himself 
had  passed  that  way  not  many  minutes  since. 
He  examined  the  two  trails  and  found  wheie 
the  blunt,  round  point  of  a  snow-shoe  had  cov- 
ered an  imprint  left  by  Couchee,  and  at  this  dis- 
covery Billy  made  a  megaphone  of  his  mittened 
hands  and  gave  utterance  to  the  long,  wailing 
holloa  of  the  forest  man.  It  was  a  cry  that 
would  carry  a  mile.  Twice  he  shouted,  and  the 
second  time  there  came  a  reply.  It  was  not  far 
distant,  and  he  responded  with  a  third  and  still 
louder  shout.  In  a  flash  there  came  again  the 
terrible  pain  in  his  head,  and  he  sank  down  on 
the  sledge.  This  time  he  was  roused  from  his 
stupor  by  the  barking  and  snarling  of  the  dogs 
and  the  voice  of  a  man.  When  he  lifted  his 
head  out  of  his  arms  he  saw  some  one  close  to 
the  dogs.  He  made  an  effort  to  rise,  and  stag- 
gered half  to  his  feet.  Then  he  fell  back,  and 
the  darkness  closed  in  about  him  more  thickly 
192 


THE   LAW 

than  before.  When  he  opened  his  eyes  again 
he  was  in  a  cabin.  He  was  conscious  of  warmth. 
The  first  sound  that  he  heard  was  the  crackling 
of  a  fire  and  the  closing  of  a  stove  door.  And 
then  he  heard  some  one  say: 

"S'help  me  God,  if  it  ain't  Billy  MacVeigh!" 

He  stared  up  into  the  face  that  was  looking 
down  at  him.  It  was  a  white  man's  face,  cov- 
ered with  a  scrubby  red  beard.  The  beard  was 
new,  but  the  eyes  and  the  voice  he  would  have 
recognized  anywhere.  For  two  years  he  had 
messed  with  Rookie  McTabb  down  at  Nor- 
way and  Nelson  House.  McTabb  had  quit 
the  Service  because  of  a  bad  leg. 

"Rookie!"  he  gasped. 

He  drew  himself  up,  and  McTabb's  hands 
grasped  his  shoulders. 

"S'help  me,  if  it  ain't  Billy  MacVeigh!"  he 
exclaimed  again,  amazement  in  his  voice  and 
face.  "Joe  brought  you  in  five  minutes  ago, 
and  I  ain't  had  a  straight  squint  at  you  un- 
til now.  Billy  MacVeigh!  Well,  I'm—"  He 
stopped  to  stare  at  Billy's  forehead,  where  there 
was  a  stain  of  blood.  "Hurt?"  he  demanded, 
sharply.  "Was  it  that  damned  half-breed?" 

Billy  was  gripping  his  hands  now.  Over  near 
the  stove,  still  kneeling  before  the  closed  door, 
193 


ISOBEL 

he  saw  the  dark  face  of  an  Indian  turned  toward 
him. 

' '  It  was  Couchee, ' '  he  said.  ' '  He  hit  me  with 
the  butt  of  his  whip,  and  I've  had  funny  spells 
ever  since.  Before  I  have  another  I  want  to 
tell  you  what  I'm  up  against,  Rookie.  My 
Gawd,  it's  a  funny  chance  that  ran  me  up 
against  you — just  in  time!  Listen." 

He  told  McTabb  briefly  of  Scottie  Deane's 
death,  of  Couch6e's  flight  from  the  cabin,  and 
the  present  situation  there. 

"There  isn't  a  minute  to  lose,"  he  fin- 
ished, tightening  his  hold  on  McTabb's  hand. 
"There's  the  kid  and  the  mother,  and  I've  got 
to  get  back  to  them,  Rookie.  The  rest  is  up  to 
you.  We've  got  to  get  a  woman.  If  we  don't 
— soon — " 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  stood  there  looking  at 
McTabb.  The  other  nodded. 

"I  understand,"  he  said.  "You're  in  a  bad 
fix,  Billy.  It's  two  hundred  miles  to  the  nearest 
white  woman,  away  over  near  Du  Brochet. 
You  couldn't  get  an  Indian  to  go  within  half  a 
mile  of  a  cabin  that's  struck  by  the  plague, 
and  I  doubt  if  this  white  woman  would  come. 
The  only  game  I  can  see  is  to  send  to  Fort 
Churchill  or  Nelson  House  and  have  the 
194 


THE    LAW 

force  send  up  a  nurse.  It  will  take  two 
weeks." 

Billy  gave  a  gesture  of  despair.  Indian  Joe 
had  listened  attentively,  and  now  rose  quietly 
from  his  position  in  front  of  the  stove. 

"There's  Indian  camp  over  on  Arrow  Lake," 
he  said,  facing  Billy.  "I  know  squaw  there 
who  not  afraid  of  plague." 

"Sure  as  fate!"  cried  McTabb,  exultantly. 
"Joe's  mother  is  over  there,  and  if  there  is  any- 
thing on  earth  she  won't  do  for  Joe  I  can't 
guess  what  it  is.  Early  this  winter  she  came  a 
hundred  and  fifty  miles — alone — to  pay  him  a 
visit.  She'll  come.  Go  after  her,  Joe.  I'll  go 
Billy  MacVeigh's  bond  to  get  the  Service  to  pay 
her  five  dollars  a  day  from  the  hour  she  starts!" 
He  turned  to  Billy.  "How's  your  head?"  he 
asked. 

"Better.  It  was  the  run  that  fixed  me,  I 
guess." 

"Then  we'll  go  over  to  Couchee's  cabin  and 
I'll  bring  back  the  kid." 

They  left  Joe  preparing  for  his  three-day 
trip  into  the  south  and  east,  and  outside  the 
cabin  McTabb  insisted  on  Billy  riding  behind 
the  dogs.  They  struck  back  for  Couchee's  trail, 
and  when  they  came  to  it  McTabb  laughed. 


ISOBEL 

"I'll  bet  they're  running  like  rabbits,"  he 
said.  "What  in  thunder  did  you  expect  to  do 
if  you  caught  'em,  Billy?  Drag  the  woman 
back  by  the  hair  of  'er  'ead?  I'm  glad  you 
tumbled  where  you  did.  You've  got  to  beat 
a  lynx  to  beat  Couchee.  He'd  have  perforated 
you  from  behind  a  snow-drift  sure  as  your 
name's  Billy  MacVeigh." 

Billy  felt  that  an  immense  load  had  been 
lifted  from  him,  and  he  was  partly  inclined  to 
tell  his  companion  more  about  Isobel  and  him- 
self. This,  however,  he  did  not  do.  As 
McTabb  strode  ahead  and  urged  on  the  dogs  he 
figured  on  the  chances  of  Joe  and  his  mother 
returning  within  a  week.  During  that  time  he 
would  be  alone  with  Isobel,  and  in  spite  of  the 
horrible  fear  that  never  for  a  moment  left  his 
heart  it  was  impossible  for  him  not  to  feel  a 
thrill  of  pleasure  at  the  thought.  Those  would 
be  days  of  agony  for  himself  as  well  as  for  her, 
and  yet  he  would  be  near,  always  near,  the 
woman  he  loved.  And  little  Isobel  would  be 
safe  in  Rookie's  cabin.  If  anything  happened — 

His  hands  gripped  the  edges  of  the  sledge  at 

the  thought  that  leaped  into  his  brain.     It  was 

Pelliter's  thought.      If  anything  happened  to 

Isobel  the  little  girl  would  be  his  own,  forever 

196 


THE    LAW 

and  forever.  He  thrust  the  thought  from  him 
as  if  it  were  the  plague  itself.  Isobel  would 
live.  He  would  make  her  live.  If  she  died — 

McTabb  heard  the  low  cry  that  broke  from 
his  lips.  He  could  not  keep  it  back.  Good 
God,  if  she  went,  how  empty  the  world  would  be ! 
He  might  never  see  her  again  after  these  days  of 
terror  that  were  ahead  of  him;  but  if  she  lived, 
and  he  knew  that  the  sun  was  shining  in  her 
bright  hair,  and  that  her  blue  eyes  still  looked 
up  at  the  stars,  and  that  in  her  sweet  prayers 
she  sometimes  thought  of  him — along  with 
Deane — life  could  not  be  quite  so  lonely  for  him. 

McTabb  had  dropped  back  to  his  side. 

"Head  hurt?"  he  asked. 

"A  little,"  lied  Billy.  "There's  a  level 
stretch  ahead,  Rookie.  Hustle  up  the  dogs!" 

Half  an  hour  later  the  sledge  drew  up  in 
front  of  Couchee's  cabin.  Billy  pointed  to  the 
tent. 

"The  little  one  is  in  there,"  he  said.  "Go 
over  an'  get  acquainted,  Rookie.  I'm  going  to 
take  a  look  inside  to  see  if  everything  is  all 

right.;; 

He  entered  the  cabin  quietly  and  closed  the 
door  softly  behind  him.    The  inner  door  was  as 
he  had  left  it,  partly  open,  and  he  looked  in,  with 
197 


ISOBEL 

a  wildly  beating  heart.  He  could  no  longer 
hesitate.  He  stepped  in  and  spoke  her  name. 

"Isobel!" 

There  was  a  movement  on  the  bed,  and  he  was 
startled  by  the  suddenness  with  which  Isobel 
sprang  to  her  feet.  She  drew  aside  the  heavy 
curtain  from  the  window  and  stood  in  the 
light.  For  a  moment  Billy  saw  her  blue  eyes 
filled  with  a  strange  fire  as  she  stared  at  him. 
There  was  a  wild  flush  in  her  cheeks,  and  he 
could  hear  her  dry  breath  as  it  came  from  be- 
tween her  parted  lips.  Her  hair  was  still  un- 
done and  covered  her  in  a  shimmering  veil. 

"I've  found  a  trapper's  cabin,  Isobel,  and 
we're  taking  the  baby  there,"  he  went  on. 
"She  will  be  safe.  And  we're  sending  for  help 
— for  a  woman — " 

He  stopped,  horror  striking  him  dumb.  He 
saw  more  plainly  the  feverish  madness  in 
Isobel's  eyes.  She  dropped  the  curtain,  and 
they  were  in  gloom.  The  whispered  words  he 
heard  were  more  terrible  than  the  madness  in 
her  eyes. 

"You  won't  kiU  her?"  she  pleaded.  "You 
won't  kill  my  baby?  You  won't  kill  her — " 

She  staggered  back  toward  the  bed,  whisper- 
ing the  words  over  and  over  again.  Not  until 
198 


THE   LAW 

she  had  dropped  upon  it  did  Billy  move.  The 
blood  in  his  body  seemed  to  have  turned  cold. 
He  dropped  upon  his  knees  at  her  side.  His 
hand  buried  itself  in  the  soft  smother  of  her 
hair,  but  he  no  longer  felt  the  touch  of  it.  He 
tried  to  speak,  but  words  would  not  come. 
And  then,  suddenly,  she  thrust  him  back,  and 
he  could  see  the  glow  of  her  eyes  in  the  half 
darkness.  For  a  moment  she  seemed  to  have 
fought  herself  out  of  her  delirium. 

"It  was  you — you — who  helped  to  kill  him!" 
she  panted.  ' '  It  was  the  Law — and  you  are  the 
Law.  It  kills — kills — kills — and  it  never  gives 
back  when  it  makes  a  mistake.  He  was  inno- 
cent, but  you  and  the  Law  hounded  him  until 
he  died.  You  are  the  murderers.  You  killed 
him.  You  have  killed  me.  And  you  will 
never  be  punished — never — never — because  you 
are  the  Law — and  because  the  Law  can  kill — 
kiU— kill— " 

She  dropped  back,  moaning,  and  MacVeigh 
crouched  at  her  side,  his  fingers  buried  in  her 
hair,  with  no  words  to  say.  In  a  moment  she 
breathed  easier.  He  felt  her  tense  body  relax. 
He  forced  himself  to  his  feet  and  dragged  him- 
self into  the  outer  room,  closing  the  door  after 
him.  Even  in  her  delirium  Isobel  had  spoken 
199 


ISOBEL 

the  truth.  Forever  she  had  digged  for  him  a 
black  abyss  between  them.  The  Law  had 
killed  Scottie  Deane.  And  he  was  the  Law. 
And  for  the  Law  there  was  no  punishment,  even 
though  it  took  the  life  of  an  innocent  man. 

He  went  outside.  McTabb  was  in  the  tent. 
The  gloom  of  evening  was  closing  in  on  a  deso- 
late world.  Overhead  the  sky  was  thick,  and 
suddenly,  with  a  great  cry,  Billy  flung  his  arms 
straight  up  over  his  head  and  cursed  that  Law 
which  could  not  be  punished,  the  Law  that  had 
killed  Scottie  Deane.  For  he  was  that  Law, 
and  Isobel  had  called  him  a  murderer. 


XVII 

ISOBEL   FACES   THE   ABYSS 

IT  was  not  the  face  of  MacVeigh  —  the  old 
MacVeigh  —  that  Rookie  McTabb,  the  ex- 
constable,  looked  into  a  few  moments  later. 
Days  of  sickness  could  have  laid  no  heavier  hand 
upon  him  than  had  those  few  minutes  in  the 
darkened  room  of  the  cabin.  His  face  was  white 
and  drawn.  There  were  tense  lines  at  the 
corners  of  his  mouth  and  something  strange  and 
disquieting  in  his  eyes.  McTabb  did  not  see 
the  change  until  he  came  out  into  what  remained 
of  the  day  with  little  Isobel  in  his  arms.  Then 
he  stared. 

"That  blow  got  you  bad,"  he  said.  "You 
look  sick.  Mebbe  I'd  better  stay  with  you  here 
to-night." 

"No,  you  hadn't,"  replied  Billy,  trying  to 
throw  off  what  he  knew  the  other  saw.  "Take 
the  kid  over  to  the  cabin.  A  night's  sleep  and 
I'll  be  as  lively  as  a  cat.  I'm  going  to  vaccinate 
her  before  you  go." 

201 


ISOBEL 

He  went  into  the  tent  and  dug  out  from  his 
pack  the  small  rubber  pouch  in  which  he  car- 
ried a  few  medicines  and  a  roll  of  medicated 
cotton.  In  a  small  bottle  there  were  three  vac- 
cine points.  He  returned  with  these  and  the 
cotton. 

"Watch  her  close,"  he  said,  as  he  rolled  back 
the  child's  sleeve.  "I'm  going  to  give  you  an 
extra  point,  and  if  this  doesn't  work  by  the 
seventh  or  eighth  day  you  must  do  the  job  over 
again." 

With  the  point  of  his  knife  he  began  to  work 
gently  on  baby  Isobel's  tender  pink  skin.  He 
had  expected  that  she  would  cry.  But  she  was 
not  frightened,  and  her  big  blue  eyes  followed 
his  movements  wonderingly.  At  last  it  began 
to  hurt,  and  her  lips  quivered.  But  she  made 
no  sound,  and  as  tears  welled  into  her  eyes 
Billy  dropped  his  knife  and  caught  her  up 
close  to  his  breast. 

"God  bless  your  dear  little  heart,"  he  cried, 
smothering  his  face  in  her  silken  curls.  ' '  You've 
been  hurt  so  much,  an'  you've  froze,  an'  you've 
starved,  an'  you  ain't  never  said  a  word  about 
it  since  that  day  up  at  Fullerton !  Little  sweet- 
heart—" 

McTabb  heard  him  whispering  things,  and 
202 


little  Isobel's  arms  crept  tightly  about  his  neck. 
After  a  little  Billy  held  her  out  to  him  again, 
and  a  part  of  what  Rookie  had  seen  in  his  face 
was  gone. 

"It  won't  hurt  any  more,"  he  said,  as  he 
rubbed  the  vaccine  point  over  the  red  spot  on  her 
arm.  "You  don't  want  to  be  sick,  do  you? 
And  that  '11  keep  you  from  being  sick.  There — " 

He  wound  a  strip  of  the  cotton  about  her  arm, 
tied  it,  and  gave  part  of  what  remained  to 
McTabb.  Then  he  took  her  in  his  arms  again 
and  kissed  her  warm  face  and  her  soft  curls,  and 
after  that  bundled  her  in  furs  and  put  her  on 
the  sledge.  Rookie  was  straightening  out  the 
dogs  when,  like  a  thief,  he  clipped  off  one  of 
the  curls  with  his  knife.  Isobel  laughed  glee- 
fully when  she  saw  the  curl  between  his  fin- 
gers. Before  McTabb  had  turned  it  was  in  his 
pocket. 

"I  won't  see  her  again  —  soon,"  MacVeigh 
said;  and  he  tried  to  keep  a  thickness  out  of 
his  voice.  "That  is,  I — I  won't  see  her  to — 
to  handle  her.  I'll  come  over  now  and  then  an' 
look  at  her  from  the  edge  of  the  woods.  You 
bring  'er  out,  Rookie,  an'  don't  you  dare  to 
let  her  know  I'm  out  there.  She  wouldn't  know 
what  it  meant  if  I  didn't  come  to  her." 
14  203 


ISOBEL 

He  watched  them  as  they  disappeared  into  the 
gloom  of  night,  and  when  they  had  gone  a  groan 
of  anguish  broke  from  his  lips.  For  he  knew 
that  little  Isobel  was  going  from  him  forever. 
He  would  see  her  again — from  the  edge  of  the 
forest;  but  he  would  never  hold  her  in  his 
arms,  nor  feel  again  her  tender  arms  about  his 
neck  or  the  soft  smother  of  her  hair  against  his 
face.  Long  before  the  dread  menace  of  the 
plague  was  lifted  from  the  cabin  and  from  him- 
self he  would  be  gone.  For  that  was  what 
Isobel,  the  mother,  had  demanded,  and  he 
would  keep  his  promise  to  her.  She  would  never 
know  what  happened  in  these  days  of  her  de- 
lirium. She  would  not  have  to  face  him  after- 
ward. He  knew  already  how  he  would  go. 
When  help  came  he  would  slip  away  quietly 
some  night,  and  the  big  wilderness  would  swal- 
low him  up.  His  plans  seemed  to  come  without 
thought  on  his  own  part.  He  would  go  to  Fort 
Churchill  and  testify  against  Bucky  Smith. 
And  then  he  would  quit  the  Service.  His  term 
of  enlistment  expired  in  a  month,  and  he  would 
not  re-enlist.  "//  was  the  Law  that  killed  him — 
and  you  are  the  Law.  It  kills — kills — kills — and 
it  never  gives  back  when  it  makes  a  mistake" 
Under  the  dark  sky  those  words  seemed  never 
204 


ISOBEL   FACES   THE   ABYSS 

to  end  in  his  ears,  and  each  moment  they  added 
to  his  hatred  of  the  thing  of  which  he  had  been 
a  part  for  years.  He  seemed  to  hear  Isobel's 
accusing  voice  in  the  low  soughing  of  the  night 
wind  in  the  spruce  tops;  and  in  the  stillness 
of  the  world  that  hung  heavy  and  close  about 
him  the  words  chased  each  other  through  his 
brain  until  they  seemed  to  leave  behind  them  a 
path  of  fire. 

"It  kills — kills — kills — and  it  never  gives  back 
when  it  makes  a  mistake. 

His  lips  were  set  tensely  as  he  faced  the  cabin. 
He  remembered  now  more  than. one  instance 
where  the  Law  had  killed  and  had  never  given 
back.  That  was  a  part  of  the  game  of  man- 
hunting.  But  he  had  never  thought  of  it  in 
Isobel's  way  until  she  had  painted  for  him  in 
those  few  half -mad,  accusing  words  a  picture 
of  himself.  The  fact  that  he  had  fought  for 
Scottie  Deane  and  had  given  him  his  freedom 
did  not  exonerate  himself  in  his  own  eyes  now. 
It  was  because  of  himself  and  Pelliter  chiefly 
that  Deane  and  Isobel  had  been  forced  to  seek 
refuge  among  the  Eskimos.  From  Fullerton 
they  had  watched  and  hunted  for  him  as  they 
would  have  hunted  for  an  animal.  He  saw  him- 
self as  Isobel  must  see  him  now — the  murderer 
205 


ISOBEL 

of  her  husband.  He  was  glad,  as  he  returned 
to  the  cabin,  that  he  had  happened  to  come 
in  the  second  or  third  day  of  her  fever.  He 
dreaded  her  sanity  now  more  than  her  de- 
lirium. 

He  lighted  a  tin  lamp  in  the  cabin  and  lis- 
tened for  a  moment  at  the  inner  door.  Isobel 
was  quiet.  For  the  first  time  he  made  a  more 
careful  note  of  the  cabin.  Couchee  and  his  wife 
had  left  plenty  of  food.  He  had  noticed  a 
frozen  haunch  of  venison  hanging  outside  the 
cabin,  and  he  went  out  and  chopped  off  several 
pieces  of  the  meat.  He  did  not  feel  hungry 
enough  to  prepare  food  for  himself,  but  put  the 
meat  in  a  pot  and  placed  it  on  the  stove,  that  he 
might  have  broth  for  Isobel. 

He  began  to  find  signs  of  her  presence  in  the 
room  as  he  moved  about.  Hanging  on  a  wooden 
peg  in  the  log  wall  he  saw  a  scarf  which  he  knew 
belonged  to  her.  Under  the  scarf  there  was  a 
pair  of  her  shoes,  and  then  he  noticed  that  the 
crude  cabin  table  was  covered  with  a  litter 
of  stuff  which  he  had  not  observed  before. 
There  were  needles  and  thread,  some  cloth,  a 
pair  of  gloves,  and  a  red  bow  of  ribbon  which 
Isobel  had  worn  at  her  throat.  What  held  his 
eyes  were  two  bundles  of  old  letters  tied  with 
206 


ISOBEL    FACES    THE   ABYSS 

blue  ribbon,  and  a  third  pile,  undone  and 
scattered.  In  the  light  of  the  lamp  he  saw  that 
all  of  the  writing  on  the  envelopes  was  in  the 
same  hand.  The  top  envelope  on  the  first  pile 
was  addressed  to  "Mrs.  Isobel  Deane,  Prince 
Albert,  Saskatchewan";  the  first  envelope  of 
the  other  bundle  to  "Miss  Isobel  Rowland, 
Montreal,  Canada."  Billy's  heart  choked  him 
as  he  gathered  the  loose  letters  in  his  hands  and 
placed  them,  with  the  others,  on  a  little  shelf 
above  the  table.  He  knew  that  they  were 
letters  from  Deane,  and  that  in  her  fever 
and  loneliness  Isobel  had  been  reading  them 
when  he  brought  to  her  news  of  her  husband's 
death. 

He  was  about  to  remove  the  other  articles 
from  the  table  when  a  folded  newspaper  clipping 
was  uncovered  by  the  removal  of  the  cloth.  It 
was  a  half  page  from  a  Montreal  daily,  and  out 
of  it  there  looked  straight  up  at  him  the  face  of 
Isobel  Deane.  It  was  a  younger,  more  girlish- 
looking  face,  but  to  him  it  was  not  half  so  beau- 
tiful as  the  face  of  the  Isobel  who  had  come 
to  him  from  out  of  the  Barren.  His  fingers 
trembled  and  his  breath  came  more  quickly  as 
he  held  the  paper  in  the  light  and  read  the  few 
lines  under  the  picture: 
207 


ISOBEL 

ISOBEL  ROWLAND,  ONE  OF  THE  LAST 
OF  MONTREAL'S  "DAUGHTERS  OF  THE 
NORTH,"  WHO  HAS  SACRIFICED  A 
FORTUNE  FOR  LOVE  OF  A  YOUNG 
ENGINEER 

In  spite  of  the  feeling  of  shame  that  crept  over 
him  at  thus  allowing  himself  to  be  drawn  into 
a  past  sacred  to  Isobel  and  the  man  who  had 
died,  Billy's  eyes  sought  the  date-line.  The 
paper  was  eight  years  old.  And  then  he  read 
what  followed.  In  those  few  minutes,  as  the 
cold,  black  type  revealed  to  him  the  story  of 
Isobel  and  Deane,  he  forgot  that  he  was  in  the 
cabin,  and  that  he  could  almost  hear  the 
breathing  of  the  woman  whose  sweet  romance 
had  ended  now  in  tragedy.  He  was  with 
Deane  that  day,  years  ago,  when  he  had  first 
looked  into  Isobel's  eyes  in  the  little  old  ceme- 
tery of  nameless  and  savage  dead  at  Ste.  Anne 
de  Beaupre;  he  heard  the  tolling  of  the  ancient 
bell  in  the  church  that  had  stood  on  the  hillside 
for  more  than  two  hundred  and  fifty  years ;  and 
he  could  hear  Deane's  voice  as  he  told  Isobel  the 
story  of  that  bell  and  how,  in  the  days  of  old, 
it  had  often  called  the  settlers  in  to  fight  against 
the  Indians.  And  then,  as  he  read  on,  he  could 
208 


ISOBEL   FACES   THE   ABYSS 

feel  the  sudden  thrill  in  Deane's  blood  when 
Isobel  had  told  him  who  she  was,  and  that 
Pierre  Radisson,  one  of  the  great  lords  of  the 
north,  had  been  her  great-grandfather;  that  he 
had  brought  offerings  to  the  little  old  church, 
and  that  he  had  fought  there  and  died  close  by, 
and  that  his  body  was  somewhere  among  the 
nameless  and  unmarked  dead.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful story,  and  MacVeigh  saw  more  of  it  be- 
tween the  lines  than  could  ever  have  been 
printed.  Once  he  had  gone  to  Ste.  Anne  de 
Beaupre  to  see  the  pilgrims  and  the  miracles 
there,  and  there  flashed  before  him  the  sunlit 
slope  overlooking  the  broad  St.  Lawrence, 
where  Isobel  and  Deane  had  afterward  met,  and 
where  she  had  told  him  how  large  a  part  the 
little  old  cracked  bell,  the  ancient  church,  and 
the  plot  of  nameless  dead  had  played  in  her  life 
ever  since  she  could  remember.  His  blood  grew 
hot  as  he  read  of  what  followed  the  beginning 
of  love  at  the  pilgrims'  shrine.  Isobel  had  no 
father  or  mother,  the  paper  said.  Her  uncle 
and  guardian  was  an  iron  master  of  the  old 
blood — the  blood  that  had  been  a  part  of  the 
wilderness  and  the  great  company  since  the 
day  the  first  "gentlemen  adventurers"  came 
over  with  Prince  Rupert.  He  lived  alone  with 
209 


ISOBEL 

Isobel  in  a  big  white  house  on  the  top  of  a  hill, 
shut  in  by  stone  walls  and  iron  pickets,  and 
looked  out  upon  the  world  with  the  cold  hauteur 
of  a  feudal  lord.  He  was  young  David  Deane's 
enemy  from  the  moment  he  first  heard  about 
him,  largely  because  he  was  nothing  more  than  a 
struggling  mining  engineer,  but  chiefly  because 
he  was  an  American  and  had  come  from  across 
the  border.  The  stone  walls  and  iron  pickets 
were  made  a  barrier  to  him.  The  heavy  gates 
never  opened  for  him.  Then  had  come  the 
break.  Isobel,  loyal  in  her  love,  had  gone  to 
Deane.  The  story  ended  there. 

For  a  few  moments  Billy  stood  with  the  paper 
in  his  hand,  the  type  a  blur  before  his  eyes. 
He  could  almost  see  Isobel's  old  home  in  Mon- 
treal. It  was  on  the  steep,  shaded  road  leading 
up  to  Mount  Royal,  where  he  had  once  watched 
a  string  of  horses  "tacking"  with  their  two- 
wheeled  carts  of  coal  in  their  arduous  journey  to 
Sir  George  Allen's  basement  at  the  end  of  it. 
He  remembered  how  that  street  had  held  a 
curious  sort  of  fascination  for  him,  with  its 
massive  stone  walls,  its  old  French  homes,  and 
that  old  atmosphere  still  clinging  to  it  of  the 
Montreal  of  a  hundred  years  ago.  Twelve 
years  before  he  had  gone  there  first  and  carved 

210 


ISOBEL   FACES   THE   ABYSS 

his  name  on  the  wooden  stairway  leading  to  the 
top  of  the  mountain.  Isobel  had  been  there 
then.  Perhaps  it  was  she  he  had  heard  singing 
behind  one  of  the  walls. 

He  put  the  paper  with  the  letters,  making  a 
note  of  the  uncle's  name.  If  anything  hap- 
pened it  would  be  his  duty  to  send  word  to  him 
—perhaps.  And  then,  deliberately,  he  tore 
into  little  pieces  the  slip  of  paper  on  which  he 
had  written  the  name.  Geoffrey  Renaud  had 
cast  off  his  niece.  And  if  she  died  why  should 
he — Billy  MacVeigh — tell  him  anything  about 
little  Isobel?  Since  Isobel's  terrible  castiga- 
tion  of  himself  and  the  Law  duty  had  begun  to 
hold  a  different  meaning  for  him. 

Several  times  during  the  next  hour  Billy  lis- 
tened at  the  door.  Then  he  made  some  tea 
and  toast  and  took  the  broth  from  the  stove. 
He  went  into  the  room,  leaving  these  on  the 
hearth  of  the  stove  so  that  they  would  not  grow 
cold.  He  heard  Isobel  move,  and  as  he  went  to 
her  side  she  gave  a  little  breathless  cry. 

"David — David — is  it  you?"  she  moaned. 
"Oh,  David,  I'm  so  glad  you  have  come!" 

Billy  stood  over  her.  In  the  darkness  his 
face  was  ashen  gray,  for  like  a  flash  of  fire  in  the 
lightless  room  the  truth  rushed  upon  him. 
211 


ISOBEL 

Shock  and  fever  had  done  their  work.  And  in 
her  delirium  Isobel  believed  that  he  was  Deane, 
her  husband.  In  the  gloom  he  saw  that  she 
was  reaching  up  her  arms  to  him. 

"David!"  she  whispered;  and  in  her  voice 
there  were  a  love  and  gladness  that  thrilled  and 
terrified  him  to  the  quick  of  his  soul. 


XVIII 

THE   FULFILMENT  OF  A   PROMISE 

IN  the  space  of  silence  that  followed  Isobel's 
1  whispered  words  there  came  to  Billy  a 
realization  of  the  crisis  which  he  faced.  The 
thought  of  surrendering  himself  to  his  first 
impulse,  and  of  taking  Deane's  place  in  these 
hours  of  Isobel's  fever,  filled  him  instantly  with 
a  revulsion  that  sent  him  back  a  step  from  the 
bed,  his  hands  clenched  until  his  nails  hurt  his 
calloused  palms. 

"No,  no,  I  am  not  David,"  he  began,  but  the 
words  died  in  his  throat. 

To  tell  her  that,  to  make  her  know  the  truth 
— that  her  husband  was  dead — might  kill  her 
now.  Hope,  belief  that  he  was  alive  and  with 
her,  would  help  to  make  her  live.  So  quickly 
that  he  could  not  have  spoken  his  thoughts  in 
words  these  things  flashed  upon  him.  If 
Deane  were  alive  and  at  her  side  his  presence 
would  save  her.  And  if  she  believed  that  he 
213 


ISOBEL 

was  Deane  he  would  save  her.  In  the  end  she 
would  never  know.  He  remembered  how  Pel- 
liter  had  forgotten  things  that  had  happened 
in  his  delirium.  To  Isobel,  when  she  awakened 
into  sanity,  it  would  only  seem  like  a  dream  at 
most.  A  few  words  from  him  then  would  con- 
vince her  of  that.  If  necessary,  he  would  tell 
her  that  she  had  talked  much  about  David  in 
her  fever  and  had  imagined  him  with  her. 
She  would  have  no  suspicion  that  he  had  played 
that  part. 

Isobel  had  waited  a  moment,  but  now  she 
whispered  again,  as  if  a  little  frightened  at  his 
silence. 

"David— David— " 

He  stepped  back  quickly  to  the  bed  and  his 
hands  met  those  reaching  up  to  him.  They 
were  hot  and  dry,  and  Isobel's  fingers  tightened 
about  his  own  almost  fiercely,  and  drew  his 
hands  down  on  her  breast. ,  She  gave  a  sigh,  as 
though  she  would  rest  easier  now  that  his  hands 
were  touching  her. 

"I  have  been  making  some  broth  for  you," 
he  said,  scarcely  daring  to  speak.  "Will  you 
take  some  of  it,  Isobel?  You  must — and 
sleep." 

He  felt  the  pressure  of  Isobel's  hands,  and 
214 


THE    PROMISE    FULFILLED 

she  spoke  to  him  so  calmly  that  for  a  breath  he 
thought  that  she  must  surely  be  herself  again. 

"I  don't  like  the  dark,  David,"  she  said. 
"I  can't  see  you.  And  I  want  to  do  up  my 
hair.  Will  you  bring  in  a  light?" 

"Not  until  you  are  better,"  he  whispered. 
"A  light  will  hurt  your  eyes.  I  will  stay  with 
you — near  you — ' 

She  raised  a  hand  in  the  darkness,  and  it 
stroked  his  face.  In  that  touch  were  all  the 
love  and  gentleness  that  had  lived  for  the  man 
who  was  dead,  and  the  caress  thrilled  Billy 
until  it  seemed  as  though  what  was  in  his  heart 
must  burst  forth  in  a  sobbing  breath.  Sud- 
denly her  hand  left  his  face,  and  he  heard  her 
moving  restlessly. 

"My  hair— David— " 

He  put  out  a  hand,  and  it  fell  in  the  soft 
smother  of  her  hair.  It  was  tangled  about  her 
face  and  neck,  and  he  lifted  her  gently  while 
he  drew  out  the  thick  masses  of  it.  He  did  not 
dare  to  speak  while  he  smoothed  out  the  rich 
tresses  and  pleated  them  into  a  braid.  Isobel 
sighed  restfully  when  he  had  done. 

"I  am  going  to  get  the  broth  now,"  he  said 
then. 

He  went  into  the  outer  room  where  the  lamp 
215 


ISOBEL 

was  lighted.  Not  until  he  took  up  the  cup  of 
broth  did  he  notice  how  his  hand  trembled. 
A  bit  of  the  broth  spilled  on  the  floor,  and  he 
dropped  a  piece  of  the  toast.  He,  too,  was 
passing  through  the  crucible  with  Isobel  Deane. 

He  went  back  and  lifted  her  so  that  her  head 
rested  against  his  shoulder  and  the  warmth  of 
her  hair  lay  against  his  cheek  and  neck.  Obe- 
diently she  ate  the  half-dozen  bits  of  toast  he 
moistened  in  the  broth,  and  then  drank  a  few 
sips  of  the  liquid.  She  would  have  rested 
there  after  that,  with  her  face  turned  against 
his,  and  Billy  knew  that  'she  would  have 
slept.  But  he  lowered  her  gently  to  the 
pillow. 

"You  must  go  to  sleep  now,"  he  urged,  softly. 
"Good  night—" 

"David!" 

"Yes—" 

' '  You — you — haven't — kissed — me — " 

There  was  a  childish  plaint  in  her  voice,  and 
with  a  sob  in  his  own  breath  he  bent  over  her. 
For  an  instant  her  arms  clung  about  his  neck. 
He  felt  the  sweet,  thrilling  touch  of  her  warm 
lips,  and  then  he  drew  himself  back;  and,  with 
her  "Good  night,  David"  following  him  to  the 
door,  he  went  into  the  outer  room,  and  with  a 

216 


THE    PROMISE    FULFILLED 

strange,  broken  cry  flung  himself  on  the  cot  in 
which  Couchee  had  slept. 

It  was  an  hour  before  he  raised  his  face  from 
the  blankets.  Yet  he  had  not  slept.  In  that 
hour,  and  in  the  half -hour  that  had  preceded  it 
in  Isobel's  room,  there  had  come  lines  into  his 
face  which  made  him  look  older.  Once  Isobel 
had  kissed  him,  and  he  had  treasured  that  kiss 
as  the  sweetest  thing  that  had  come  to  him  in 
all  his  life.  And  to-night  she  had  given  him 
more  than  that,  for  there  had  been  love,  and 
not  gratitude  alone,  in  the  warmth  of  her  lips, 
in  the  caress  of  her  hands  and  arms,  and  in  the 
pressure  of  her  feverish  face  against  his  own. 
But  they  brought  him  none  of  the  pleasure  of 
that  which  she  had  given  to  him  on  the  Barren. 
Grief-stricken,  he  rose  and  faced  the  door.  In 
spite  of  the  fact  that  he  knew  there  was  no 
alternative  for  him,  he  regarded  himself  as 
worse  than  a  thief.  He  was  taking  an  advan- 
tage of  her  which  filled  him  with  a  repugnance 
for  himself,  and  he  prayed  for  the  hour  when 
sanity  would  return  to  her,  though  it  brought 
back  the  heartbreak  and  despair  that  were  now 
lost  in  the  oblivion  of  her  fever.  Always  in  the 
northland  there  is  somewhere  the  dread  trail 
of  le  mort  rouge,  the  "red  death,"  and  he  was 
217 


ISOBEL 

well  acquainted  with  the  course  it  would  have 
to  run.  He  believed  that  the  fever  had  stricken 
Isobel  the  third  or  fourth  day  before,  and 
there  would  follow  three  or  four  days  more  in 
which  she  would  not  be  herself.  Then  would 
come  the  reaction.  She  would  awaken  to  the 
truth  then  that  her  husband  was  dead,  and 
that  he  had  been  with  her  alone  all  that 
time. 

He  listened  for  a  moment  at  the  door. 
Isobel  was  resting  quietly,  and  he  went  out  of 
the  cabin  without  making  a  sound.  The  night 
had  grown  blacker  and  gloomier.  There  was 
not  a  rift  in  tne  sullen  darkness  of  the  sky  over 
him.  A  wind  had  risen  from  out  of  the  north 
and  east,  just  enough  of  a  wind  to  set  the  tree- 
tops  moaning  and  fill  the  closed-in  world  about 
him  with  uneasy  sound.  He  walked  toward  the 
tent  where  little  Isobel  had  been,  and  there  was 
something  in  the  air  that  choked  him.  He 
wished  that  he  had  not  sent  all  of  the  dogs 
with  McTabb.  A  terrible  loneliness  oppressed 
him.  It  was  like  a  clammy  hand  smothering  his 
heart  in  its  grip,  and  it  made  him  sick.  He 
turned  and  looked  at  the  light  in  the  cabin. 
Isobel  was  there,  and  he  had  thought  that 
where  she  was  he  could  never  be  lonely.  But 
218 


THE    PROMISE    FULFILLED 

he  knew  now  that  there  lay  between  them  a 
gulf  which  an  eternity  could  not  bridge. 

He  shuddered,  for  with  the  night  wind  it 
seemed  to  him  that  there  came  again  the 
presence  of  Scottie  Deane.  He  gripped  his 
hands  and  stared  out  into  a  pit  of  blackness.  It 
was  as  if  he  had  heard  the  Wild  Horsemen 
passing  that  way,  panting  and  galloping  through 
the  spruce  tops  on  their  mission  of  gathering  the 
souls  of  the  dead.  Deane  was  with  him,  as 
his  spirit  had  been  with  him  on  that  night  he 
had  returned  to  Pelliter  after  putting  the 
cross  over  Scottie's  grave.  And  ^i  a  moment 
or  two  the  feeling  of  that  presence  seemed  to 
lift  the  smothering  weight  from  his  heart.  He 
knew  that  Deane  could  understand,  and  the 
presence  comforted  him.  He  went  to  the  tent 
and  looked  in,  though  there  was  nothing  to  see. 
And  then  he  turned  back  to  the  cabin.  Thought 
of  the  grave  with  its  sapling  cross  brought  home 
to  him  his  duty  to  the  woman.  From  the 
rubber  pouch  he  brought  forth  his  pad  of  paper 
and  a  pencil. 

For  more  than  an  hour  after  that  he  worked 

steadily  in  the  dull  glow  of  the  lamp.     He 

knew  that  Isobel  would  return  to  Deane.     It 

might  be  soon — or  a  long  time  from  now.     But 

15  219 


ISOBEL 

she  would  go.  And  step  by  step  he  mapped 
out  for  her  the  trail  that  led  to  the  little  cabin 
on  the  edge  of  the  Barren.  And  after  that  he 
wrote  in  his  big,  rough  hand  what  was  over- 
flowing from  his  heart. 

"May  God  take  care  of  you  always.  I  would 
give  my  life  to  give  you  back  his.  I  won't  let  his 
grave  be  lost.  I  will  go  back  some  day  and  plant 
blue  flowers  over  it.  I  guess  you  will  never  know 
what  I  would  do  to  give  him  back  to  you  and  make 
you  happy." 

He  knew  that  he  had  not  promised  what  he 
would  fail  to  do.  He  would  return  to  the 
lonely  grave  on  the  edge  of  the  Barren.  There 
was  something  that  called  him  to  it  now, 
something  that  he  could  not  understand,  and 
which  came  of  his  own  desolation.  He  folded 
the  pages  of  paper,  wrapped  them  in  a  clean 
sheet,  and  wrote  Isobel  Deane's  name  on  the 
outside.  Then  he  placed  the  packet  with  the 
letters  on  the  shelf  over  the  table.  He  knew 
that  she  would  find  it  with  them. 

I 

What  happened  during  the  terrible  week  that 
followed  that  night  no  one  but  MacVeigh  would 
ever  know.  To  him  they  were  seven  days  of  a 
fight  whose  memory  would  remain  with  him 

220 


THE   PROMISE    FULFILLED 

until  the  end  of  time.  Sleepless  nights  and 
almost  sleepless  days.  A  bitter  struggle,  almost 
without  rest,  with  the  horrible  specter  that 
ever  hovered  within  the  inner  room.  A  struggle 
that  drew  his  cheeks  in  and  put  deep  lines  in  his 
face;  a  struggle  during  which  Isobel's  voice 
spoke  tenderly  and  pleadingly  with  him  in  one 
hour  and  bitterly  in  the  next.  He  felt  the 
caress  of  her  hands.  More  than  once  she  drew 
him  down  to  the  soft  thrill  of  her  feverish  lips. 
And  then,  in  more  terrible  moments,  she 
accused  him  of  hunting  to  death  the  man  who 
lay  back  under  the  sapling  cross.  The  three 
days  of  torment  lengthened  into  four,  and  the 
four  into  seven.  To  the  bottom  of  his  soul  he 
suffered,  for  he  understood  what  it  all  meant  for 
him.  On  the  third  and  the  fifth  and  the 
seventh  days  he  went  over  to  McTabb's  cabin, 
and  Rookie  came  out  and  talked  with  him  at  a 
distance  through  a  birchbark  megaphone.  On 
the  seventh  day  there  was  still  no  news  of 
Indian  Joe  and  his  mother.  And  on  this  day 
Billy  played  his  last  part  as  Deane.  He  went 
into  her  room  at  noon  with  broth  and  toast  and 
a  dish  of  water,  and  after  she  had  eaten  a  little 
he  lifted  her  and  made  a  prop  of  blankets  at  her 
back  so  that  he  could  brush  out  and  braid  her 

221 


ISOBEL 

beautiful  hair.  It  was  light  in  the  room  in 
spite  of  the  curtain  which  he  kept  closely  drawn. 
Outside  the  sun  was  shining  brightly,  and  the 
pale  luster  of  it  came  through  the  curtain  and 
lit  up  the  rich  tresses  he  was  brushing.  When 
he  was  done  he  lowered  her  gently  to  her  pillow. 
She  was  looking  at  him  strangely.  And  then, 
with  a  shock  that  seemed  to  turn  him  cold  to 
the  depths  of  his  soul,  he  saw  what  was  in  her 
eyes.  Sanity  and  reason.  He  saw  swiftly 
gathering  in  them  the  old  terror,  the  old  grief — 
recognition  of  his  true  self !  He  waited  to  hear 
no  word,  but  turned  as  he  had  done  a  hundred 
times  before  and  left  the  room. 

In  the  outer  room  he  stood  for  a  few  silent 
minutes,  gathering  strength  for  the  ordeal  that 
was  near.  The  end  was  at  hand — for  him. 
He  choked  back  his  weakness,  and  after  a  time 
returned  to  the  inner  door.  But  now  he  did 
not  go  in  as  he  had  entered  before.  He  knocked. 
It  was  the  first  time.  And  Isobel's  voice  bade 
him  enter. 

His  heart  was  filled  with  a  sudden  throbbing 
pain  when  he  saw  that  she  had  turned  so  that  she 
lay  with  her  face  turned  away  from  him.  He 
bent  over  her  and  said,  softly: 

"You  are  better.     The  danger  is  past." 

222 


THE    PROMISE    FULFILLED 

"I  am  better  and — and — it  is  over?"  he  heard 
her  whisper. 

"Yes." 

"The— the  baby?" 

"Is  well— yes." 

There  was  a  moment's  silence.  The  room 
seemed  to  tremble  with  it.  Then  she  said, 
faintly: 

"You  have  been  alone?" 

"Yes — alone — for  seven  days." 

She  turned  her  eyes  upon  him  fully.  He 
could  see  the  glow  of  them  in  the  faint  light. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  she  was  reading  him  to  the 
depths  of  his  soul,  and  that  in  this  moment 
she  knew!  She  knew  that  he  had  taken  the  part 
of  David,  and  suddenly  she  turned  her  face 
away  from  him  again  with  a  strange,  choking 
sob.  He  could  feel  her  trembling.  She  seemed 
struggling  for  breath  and  strength,  and  he 
heard  again  the  words  ' '  You — you — you — ' 

"Yes,  yes — I  know — I  understand,"  he  said, 
and  his  heart  choked  him.  "You  must  be 
quiet — now.  I  promised  you  that  if  you  got 
well  I  would  go.  And — I  will.  No  one  will 
ever  know.  I  will  go." 

"And  you  will  never  come  to  me  again?" 
Her  voice  was  terribly  quiet  and  cold. 
223 


ISOBEL 

"Never,"  he  said.  "I  swear  that." 
She  had  drawn  away  from  him 'now  until  he 
could  see  nothing  of  her  but  the  shimmer  of  her 
thick  braid  where  it  lay  in  a  ray  of  light.  But 
he  could  hear  her  sobbing  breath.  She  scarcely 
knew  when  he  left  the  room,  he  went  so  quietly. 
He  closed  her  door  after  him,  and  this  time  he 
latched  it.  The  outer  door  was  open,  and  sud- 
denly he  heard  that  for  which  he  had  been 
waiting  and  listening — the  short,  sharp  yelping 
of  dogs,  and  a  human  voice. 

In  three  leaps  he  was  out  in  the  open.  Half- 
way across  the  narrow  clearing  Indian  Joe  had 
halted  with  his  team.  One  glance  at  the  sledge 
showed  Billy  that  Joe's  mother  had  not  failed 
him.  A  thin,  weazened  little  old  woman 
scrambled  from  a  pile  of  bearskins  as  he  ran 
toward  them.  She  had  sunken  eyes  that 
watched  his  approach  with  a  ratlike  glitter,  and 
her  naked  hands  were  so  emaciated  that  they 
looked  like  claws;  but  in  spite  of  her  unpre- 
possessing appearance  Billy  almost  hugged  her 
in  his  delight  at  their  coming.  Maballa  was 
her  name,  Rookie  had  told  him,  and  she  under- 
stood and  could  talk  English  better  than  her  son. 
Billy  told  her  of  the  condition  in  the  cabin,  and 
when  he  had  finished  she  took  a  small  pack 
224 


THE    PROMISE    FULFILLED 

from  the  sledge,  cackled  a  few  words  to  Indian 
Joe,  and  followed  him  without  a  moment's 
hesitation.  That  she  had  no  fear  of  the  plague 
added  to  Billy's  feeling  of  relief.  As  soon  as 
she  had  taken  off  her  hood  and  heavy  blanket 
she  went  fearlessly  into  the  inner  room,  and  a 
moment  later  Billy  heard  her  talking  to  Isobel. 
It  took  him  but  a  few  moments  to  gather  up 
the  few  things  he  possessed  and  put  them  in 
his  pack.  Then  he  went  out  and  took  down  his 
tent.  Indian  Joe  had  already  gone,  and  he 
followed  in  his  trail.  An  hour  later  McTabb 
appeared  at  the  door  of  his  cabin,  summoned 
by  Billy's  shout.  He  circled  about  and  came 
up  with  the  wind,  until  he  stood  within  fifty 
paces  of  MacVeigh.  Billy  told  him  what  he 
was  going  to  do.  He  was  going  to  Churchill, 
and  would  leave  Isobel  and  the  baby  in  his  care. 
From  Fort  Churchill  he  would  send  back  an 
escort  to  take  the  woman  and  little  Isobel  down 
to  civilization.  He  wanted  fresh  clothes — any- 
thing he  could  wear.  Those  he  had  on  he 
would  be  compelled  to  burn.  He  suggested 
that  he  could  get  into  one  of  Indian  Joe's  out- 
fits, if  he  had  any  spare  garments,  and  McTabb 
went  back  to  the  cabin,  returning  a  few  minutes 
later  with  an  armful  of  clothes. 
225 


ISOBEL 

"Here's  everything  you'll  need,  except  an 
undershirt  an'  drawers,"  said  McTabb,  placing 
them  in  a  pile  on  the  snow.  "I'll  wait  a  little 
while  you're  changing.  Better  burn  those 
quick.  The  wind  might  change,  and  I  don't 
want  to  be  caught  in  a  whiff  of  it." 

He  moved  to  a  safe  distance  while  Billy 
secured  the  clothes  and  went  into  the  timber. 
From  a  birch  tree  he  pulled  off  a  pile  of  bark, 
and  as  he  stripped  he  put  his  old  clothes  on  it. 
McTabb  could  hear  the  crackling  and  snapping 
of  the  fire  when  Billy  reappeared  arrayed  in 
Indian  Joe's  "second  best" — buckskin  trousers, 
a  worn  and  tattered  fur  coat,  a  fisher-skin  cap, 
and  moccasins  a  size  too  small  for  him.  For 
fifteen  minutes  the  two  men  talked,  McTabb 
still  drawing  the  dead-line  at  fifty  paces.  Then 
he  went  back  and  brought  up  Billy's  dogs  and 
sledge. 

"I'd  like  to  shake  hands  with  you,  Billy," 
he  apologized,  "but  I  guess  it's  best  not  to.  I 
don't  suppose — we'd  dare — bring  out  the  kid?" 

"No,"  said  Billy.  "Good-by,  Mac.  I'll  see 
you  —  sometime  —  later.  Just  go  back  —  an' 
bring  her  to  the  door,  will  you?  I  don't  want 
her  to  know  I'm  here,  an'  I'll  take  a  look  at  her 
from  the  bush.  She  wouldn't  understand,  you 
226 


THE    PROMISE    FULFILLED 

know,  if  she  knew  I  was  here  an'  wouldn't  come 
up  an'  see  her." 

He  concealed  himself  among  the  spruce  as 
McTabb  went  into  the  cabin.  A  moment  later 
he  reappeared.  Isobel  was  in  his  arms,  and 
Billy  gulped  back  a  sob.  For  an  instant  she 
turned  her  face  his  way,  and  he  could  see  that 
she  was  pointing  in  his  direction  as  Rookie 
talked  to  her,  and  then  for  another  instant 
the  sun  lit  up  the  child's  hair  with  a  golden 
fire,  as  he  had  first  seen  it  on  that  wonderful  day 
at  Fullerton.  He  wanted  to  cry  out  one  word 
to  her — at  least  one — but  what  came  was  only 
the  sob  he  had  fought  to  keep  back.  He 
turned  his  face  into  the  forest.  And  this  time 
he  knew  that  the  parting  was  final. 


XIX 

A  PILGRIMAGE  TO   THE   BARREN 

fourth  night  after  he  had  left  the 
1  plague  -  stricken  cabin  Billy  was  camped 
on  Lame  Otter  Creek,  one  hundred  and  eighty 
miles  from  Fort  Churchill,  over  on  Hudson's 
Bay.  He  had  eaten  his  supper,  and  was  smoking 
his  pipe.  It  was  a  clear  and  glorious  night, 
with  the  sky  afire  with  stars  and  a  full  moon. 
Several  times  Billy  had  stared  at  the  moon. 
It  was  what  the  Indians  called  "the  bleeding 
moon" — red  as  blood,  with  an  uneven,  dripping 
edge.  It  was  the  Indian  superstition  that  it 
meant  misfortune  to  those  who  did  not  keep  it 
at  their  backs.  For  seven  consecutive  nights 
it  had  made  a  red  trail  through  the  skies  in  that 
terrible  year  of  plague  nineteen  years  before, 
when  a  quarter  of  the  forest  population  of  the 
north  had  died.  Since  then  it  had  been  known 
as  the  "plague  moon."  Billy  had  seen  it  only 
twice  before.  He  was  not  superstitious,  but 
228 


A    PILGRIMAGE 

to-night  he  was  filled  with  a  strange  sensation 
of  uneasiness.  He  laughed  an  unpleasant  laugh 
as  he  stared  into  the  crackling  birch  flames  and 
wondered  what  new  misfortune  could  come  to  him. 
And  then,  slowly,  something  seemed  to  come 
to  him  from  out  of  the  wonderful  night  like  a 
quieting  hand  to  still  the  pain  in  his  broken 
heart.  At  last,  once  more,  he  was  home.  For 
the  wind-swept  Barrens  and  the  forest  had  been 
his  home,  and  more  than  once  he  had  told 
himself  that  life  away  from  them  would  be 
impossible  for  him.  More  deeply  than  ever 
this  thought  came  to  him  to-night.  He  had 
become  a  part  of  them  and  they  a  part  of  him. 
And  as  he  looked  up  again  at  the  red  moon  the 
sight  of  it  no  longer  brought  him  uneasiness,  but 
a  strange  sort  of  joy.  For  an  hour  he  sat  there, 
and  the  fire  died  down.  About  him  the  rustle 
and  whisper  of  the  wild  closed  in  nearer.  It 
was  his  world,  and  he  breathed  more  deeply 
and  listened.  Lonely  and  sick  at  heart,  he  felt 
the  life  and  sympathy  and  love  of  it  creeping 
into  him,  grieving  with  him  in  his  grief,  warming 
him  with  its  hope,  pledging  him  again  the  eternal 
friendship  of  its  trees,  its  mountains,  and  all  of 
the  wild  that  it  held  therein.  A  hundred  times, 
in  that  strange  man-play  that  comes  of  loneli- 
229 


ISOBEL 

ness  in  the  far  north,  he  had  given  life  and 
form  to  the  star  shadows  about  him,  to  the 
shadows  of  the  tall  spruce,  the  twisted  shrub, 
the  rocks,  and  even  the  mountains.  And  now 
it  was  no  longer  play.  With  each  hour  that 
passed  this  night,  and  with  each  day  and  night 
that  followed,  they  became  more  real  to 
MacVeigh;  and  the  fires  he  built  in  the  black 
gloom  painted  him  pictures  as  they  had  never 
painted  them  before;  and  the  trees  and  the 
rocks  and  the  twisted  shrub  comforted  him 
more  and  more  in  his  loneliness,  and  gave  to 
him  the  presence  of  life  in  their  movement,  in 
the  coming  and  going  of  their  shadow  forms. 
Everywhere  they  were  the  same  old  friends, 
unvarying  and  changeless.  The  spruce  shadow 
of  to-night,  nodding  to  him  in  its  silent  way,  was 
the  same  that  nodded  to  him  last  night — a 
hundred  nights  ago ;  the  stars  were  the  same,  the 
winds  whispering  to  him  in  the  tree-tops  were 
the  same,  everything  was  as  it  was  yesterday — 
years  ago.  He  knew  that  in  these  things,  and 
in  these  things  alone,  he  would  always  possess 
Isobel.  She  would  return  to  civilization,  and 
the  shifting  scenes  of  life  down  there  would 
soon  make  her  forget  him — almost.  But  in  his 
world  there  was  no  change.  Ten  years  from 
230 


A   PILGRIMAGE 

now  he  might  go  over  their  old  trail  and  still 
find  the  charred  remains  of  the  campfire  he  had 
built  for  her  that  night  beside  the  Barren. 
The  wilderness  would  bear  memory  of  her  so 
long  as  he  was  a  part  of  it ;  and  now,  as  he  came 
nearer  to  Churchill,  he  knew  that  he  would 
always  be  a  part  of  it. 

Three  weeks  after  he  had  left  Couchee's 
cabin  he  came  into  Fort  Churchill.  A  month 
had  changed  him  so  that  the  factor  did  not 
recognize  him  at  first.  The  inspector  in  charge 
stared  at  him  twice,  and  then  cried,  ' '  My  God, 
is  it  you,  MacVeigh?"  To  Pelliter  alone,  who 
was  waiting  for  him,  did  Billy  tell  all  that  had 
happened  down  on  the  Little  Beaver.  There 
were  several  letters  waiting  for  him  at  Churchill, 
and  one  of  these  told  him  that  a  silver  property 
in  which  he  was  interested  over  at  Cobalt  had 
turned  out  well  and  that  his  share  in  the  sale 
was  something  over  ten  thousand  dollars.  He 
used  this  unexpected  piece  of  good-fortune  as 
an  excuse  to  the  inspector  when  he  refused  to 
re-enlist.  A  week  after  his  arrival  at  Churchill 
Bucky  Smith  was  dishonorably  discharged  from 
the  Service.  There  were  several  near  them 
when  Bucky  came  up  to  him  with  a  smile  on  his 
face  and  offered  to  shake  hands. 
231 


ISOBEL 

"I  don't  bear  you  any  ill-will,  Billy,"  he  said, 
loud  enough  for  the  others  to  hear.  "Only 
you've  made  a  big  mistake."  And  then,  in 
words  for  Billy's  ears  alone,  he  added:  "Re- 
member what  I  promised  you!  I'll  kill  you  for 
this  if  I  have  to  hunt  you  round  the  world!" 

A  few  days  later  Pelliter  left  on  the  last  of 
the  slush  snows  in  an  effort  to  reach  Nelson 
House  before  the  sledging  was  gone. 

"I  wish  you'd  go  with  me,  Billy,"  he  en- 
treated for  the  hundredth  time.  "My  girl  'd 
love  to  have  you  come,  an'  you  know  how  I'd 
like  it." 

But  Billy  could  not  be  moved. 

"I'll  come  and  see  you  some  day — when 
you've  got  the  kid,"  he  promised,  trying  to 
laugh,  as  he  shook  hands  for  the  last  time  with 
his  old  comrade. 

For  three  days  after  Pelliter's  departure  he 
remained  at  the  post.  On  the  morning  of  the 
fourth,  with  his  pack  on  his  back  and  without 
dogs,  he  struck  off  into  the  north  and  west. 

"I  think  I'll  spend  next  winter  at  Fond  du 
Lac,"  he  told  the  inspector.  "If  there's  any 
mail  for  me  you  can  send  it  there  if  you  have  a 
chance,  and  if  I'm  not  at  Fond  du  Lac  it  can  be 
returned  to  Churchill." 

232 


A    PILGRIMAGE 

He  said  Fond  du  Lac  because  Deane's  grave 
lay  between  Churchill  and  the  old  Hudson's 
Bay  Company's  post  over  in  the  country  of  the 
Athabasca.  The  Barrens  were  the  one  thing 
that  called  to  him  now — the  one  thing  to  which 
he  dared  respond.  He  would  keep  his  promise 
to  Isobel  and  visit  Scot  tie's  grave.  At  least 
he  tried  to  make  himself  believe  that  he  was 
keeping  a  promise.  But  deep  in  him  there  was 
an  undercurrent  of  feeling  which  he  could  not 
explain.  It  was  as  if  there  were  a  spirit  with 
him  at  times,  walking  at  his  side,  and  hovering 
about  his  campfire  at  nights,  and  when  he  gave 
himself  up  to  the  right  mood  he  felt  that  it  was 
the  presence  of  Deane.  He  believed  in  strong 
friendship,  but  he  had  never  believed  in  the  love 
of  man  for  man.  He  had  not  thought  that 
such  a  thing  could  exist,  except,  perhaps,  be- 
tween father  and  son.  With  him,  in  all  the 
castles  he  had  built  and  the  dreams  he  had 
dreamed,  the  alpha  and  omega  of  love  had  re- 
mained with  woman.  For  the  first  time  he 
knew  what  it  meant  to  love  a  man — the  memory 
of  a  man. 

Something  held  him  from  telling  the  secret 
of  his  mission  at  Churchill  even  to  Pelliter. 
The  evening  before  he  left  he  had  smuggled  an 
233 


ISOBEL 

ax  into  the  edge  of  the  forest,  and  the  second 
day  he  found  use  for  this.  He  came  to  a 
straight-grained,  thick  birch,  eighteen  inches  in 
diameter,  and  he  put  up  his  tent  fifty  paces  from 
it.  Before  he  rolled  himself  in  his  blankets  that 
night  he  had  cut  down  the  tree.  The  next  day 
he  chopped  off  the  butt,  and  before  another 
nightfall  had  hewn  out  a  slab  two  inches  thick, 
a  foot  wide,  and  three  feet  long.  When  he 
took  up  the  trail  into  the  north  and  west  again 
the  following  morning  he  left  the  ax  behind. 

The  fourth  night  he  worked  with  his  hunting- 
knife  and  his  belt-ax,  thinning  down  the  slab 
and  making  it  smooth.  The  fifth  and  the 
sixth  nights  he  passed  in  the  same  way,  and  he 
ended  the  sixth  night  by  heating  the  end  of  a 
small  iron  rod  in  the  fire  and  burning  the  first 
three  letters  of  Deane's  epitaph  on  the  slab. 
For  a  time  he  was  puzzled,  wondering  whether 
he  should  use  the  name  Scottie  or  David.  He 
decided  on  David. 

He  did  not  travel  fast,  for  to  him  spring  was 
the  most  beautiful  of  all  seasons  in  the  wilder- 
ness. It  was  underfoot  and  overhead  now. 
The  snow-floods  were  singing  between  the  ridges 
and  gathering  in  the  hollows.  The  poplar  buds 
were  swollen  almost  to  the  bursting  point,  and 
234 


A    PILGRIMAGE 

the  bakneesh  vines  were  as  red  as  blood  with 
the  glow  of  new  life.  Seventeen  days  after  he 
left  Churchill  he  came  to  the  edge  of  the  big 
Barren.  For  two  days  he  swung  westward,  and 
early  in  the  forenoon  of  the  third  looked  out 
over  the  gray  waste,  dotted  with  moving 
caribou,  over  which  he  and  Pelliter  had  raced 
ahead  of  the  Eskimos  with  little  Isobel.  He  went 
to  the  cabin  first  and  entered.  It  was  evident 
that  no  one  had  been  there  since  he  had  left. 
On  the  bunk  where  Deane  had  died  he  found  one 
of  baby  Isobel's  little  mittens.  He  had  won- 
dered where  she  had  lost  it,  and  had  made  her 
a  new  one  of  lynx -skin  on  the  way  down  to 
Couchee's  cabin.  The  tiny  bed  that  he  had 
made  for  her  on -the  floor  was  as  she  had  last 
slept  in  it,  and  in  the  part  of  a  blanket  that  he 
had  used  as  a  pillow  was  still  the  imprint  of  her 
head.  On  the  wall  hung  a  pair  of  old  trousers 
that  Deane  had  worn.  Billy  looked  at  these 
things,  standing  silently,  with  his  pack  at  his 
feet.  There  was  something  in  the  cabin  that 
closed  in  about  him  and  choked  him,  and  he 
struggled  to  overcome  it  by  whistling.  His  lips 
seemed  thick.  At  last  he  turned  and  went  to 
the  grave. 

The  foxes  had  been  there,  and  had  dug  a 
16  235 


ISOBEL 

little  about  the  sapling  cross.  There  was  no 
other  change.  During  the  remainder  of  the 
forenoon  Billy  cut  down  a  heavier  sapling  and 
sunk  the  butt  of  it  three  feet  into  the  half -frozen 
earth  at  the  head  of  Deane's  grave.  Then, 
with  spikes  he  had  brought  with  him,  he  nailed 
on  the  slab.  He  believed  that  no  one  would 
ever  know  what  the  words  on  that  slab  meant— 
no  one  except  himself  and  the  spirit  of  Scottie 
Deane.  With  the  end  of  the  heated  rod  he  had 
burned  into  the  wood: 

DAVID  DEANE 

Died  Feb.  27,  1908 

BELOVED  OF  ISOBEL  AND  THE  ONE 

WHO    WISHES    HE    COULD   TAKE 

YOUR   PLACE   AND   GIVE 

YOU   BACK   TO 

HER 

W.  M.    April  15,  1908 

He  did  not  stop  when  it  was  time  for  dinner, 
but  carried  rocks  from  a  ridge  a  couple  of 
hundred  yards  away,  and  built  a  cairn  four  feet 
high  around  the  sapling,  so  that  storm  or  wild 
animals  could  not  knock  it  down.  Then  he 
236 


A   PILGRIMAGE 

began  a  search  in  the  warmest  and  sunniest 
parts  of  the  forest,  where  the  green  tips  of 
plant  life  were  beginning  to  reveal  themselves. 
He  found  snowflowers,  redglow,  and  bakneesh, 
and  dug  up  root  after  root,  and  at  last,  peeping 
out  from  between  two  rocks,  he  found  the  arrow- 
like  tip  of  a  blue  flower.  The  bakneesh  roots 
he  planted  about  the  cairn,  and  the  blue  flower 
he  planted  by  itself  at  the  head  of  the  grave. 

It  was  long  past  midday  when  he  returned  to 
the  cabin,  and  once  more  he  was  oppressed  by 
the  appalling  loneliness  of  it.  It  was  not  as  he 
had  thought  it  would  be.  Deane's  spirit  and 
companionship  had  seemed  to  be  nearer  to  him 
beside  his  campfires  and  in  the  forest.  He 
cooked  a  meal  over  the  stove,  but  the  snapping 
of  the  fire  seemed  strange  and  unnatural  in  the 
deserted  room.  Even  the  air  he  breathed  was 
heavy  with  the  oppression  of  death  and  broken 
hopes.  He  found  it  difficult  to  swallow  the 
food  he  had  cooked,  though  he  had  eaten  nothing 
since  morning.  When  he  was  done  he  looked 
at  his  watch.  It  was  four  o'clock.  The 
northern  sun  had  dropped  behind  the  distant 
forests  and  was  followed  now  by  the  thickening 
gloom  of  early  evening.  For  a  few  moments 
Billy  stood  motionless  outside  the  cabin. 
237 


ISOBEL 

Behind  him  an  owl  hooted  its  lonely  mating- 
song.  Over  his  head  a  brush  sparrow  twittered. 
It  was  that  hour,  just  between  the  end  of  day 
and  the  beginning  of  night,  when  the  wilderness 
holds  its  breath  and  all  is  still.  Billy  clenched 
his  hands  and  listened.  He  could  not  keep 
back  the  break  that  was  in  his  breath.  Some- 
thing out  there  in  the  silence  and  the  gathering 
darkness  was  calling  him — calling  him  away 
from  the  cabin,  away  from  the  grave,  and  the 
gray,  dead  waste  of  the  Barren.  He  turned 
back  into  the  cabin  and  put  his  things  into  the 
pack.  He  took  the  little  mitten  to  keep  with 
his  other  treasures,  and  then  he  went  out  and 
closed  the  door  behind  him.  He  passed  close 
to  the  grave  and  for  the  last  time  gazed  upon 
the  spot  where  Deane  lay  buried. 

"Good-by,  old  man,"  he  whispered.  Good- 
by-" 

The  owl  hooted  louder  as  he  turned  his  face 
into  the  west.  It  made  him  shiver,  and  he 
hurried  his  steps  into  the  unbroken  wilderness 
that  lay  for  hundreds  of  miles  between  him  and 
the  post  at  Fond  du  Lac. 


XX 

THE    LETTER 

DAYS  and  weeks  and  months  of  a  loneliness 
which  Billy  had  never  known  before  fol- 
lowed after  his  pilgrimage  to  Deane's  grave.  It 
was  more  than  loneliness.  He  had  known 
loneliness,  the  heartbreak  and  the  longing  of  it, 
in  the  black  and  silent  chaos  of  the  arctic  night ; 
he  had  almost  gone  mad  of  it,  and  he  had  seen 
Pelliter  nearly  die  for  a  glimpse  of  the  sun  and 
the  sound  of  a  voice.  But  this  was  different. 
It  was  something  that  ate  deeper  at  his  soul 
each  day  and  each  night  that  he  lived.  He  had 
believed  that  thought  of  Isobel  and  his  memo- 
ries of  her  would  make  him  happier,  even 
though  he  never  saw  her  again.  But  in  this  he 
was  mistaken.  The  wilderness  does  not  lend  to 
forgetfulness,  and  each  day  her  voice  seemed 
nearer  and  more  real  to  him,  and  she  became 
more  and  more  insistently  a  part  of  his  thoughts. 
Never  an  hour  of  the  day  passed  that  he  did 
239 


ISOBEL 

not  ask  himself  where  she  was.  He  hoped  that 
she  and  the  baby  Isobel  had  returned  to  the  old 
home  in  Montreal,  where  they  would  surely  find 
friends  and  be  cared  for.  And  yet  the  dread 
was  upon  him  that  she  had  remained  in  the 
wilderness,  that  her  love  for  Deane  would  keep 
her  there,  and  that  she  would  find  a  woman's 
work  at  some  post  between  the  Height  of  Land 
and  the  Barrens.  At  times  there  possessed  him 
an  overwhelming  desire  to  return  to  McTabb's 
cabin  and  find  where  they  had  gone.  But  he 
fought  against  this  desire  as  a  man  fights  against 
death.  He  knew  that  once  he  surrendered  him- 
self to  the  temptation  to  be  near  her  again  he 
would  lose  much  that  he  had  won  in  his  struggle 
during  the  days  of  plague  in  Couch6e's  cabin. 

So  his  feet  carried  him  steadily  westward, 
while  the  invisible  hands  tugged  at  him  from 
behind.  He  did  not  go  straight  to  Fond  du 
Lac,  but  spent  nearly  three  weeks  with  a  trapper 
whom  he  ran  across  on  the  Pipestone  River. 
It  was  June  when  he  struck  Fond  du  Lac,  and 
he  remained  there  a  month.  He  had  more 
than  half  expected  to  pass  the  winter  there,  but 
the  factor  at  the  post  proved  a  disagreeable 
acquaintance,  and  he  did  not  like  the  country. 
So  early  in  July  he  set  out  deeper  into  the 
240 


THE    LETTER 

Athabasca  country  to  the  west,  followed  the 
northern  shore  of  the  big  lake,  and  two  months 
later  came  to  Fort  Chippewyan,  near  the  mouth 
of  the  Slave  River. 

He  struck  Chippewyan  at  a  fortunate  time. 
A  government  geological  and  map-making  party 
was  just  preparing  to  leave  for  the  terra  incognita 
between  the  Great  Slave  and  the  Great  Bear, 
and  the  three  men  who  had  come  up  from 
Ottawa  urged  Billy  to  join  them.  He  jumped 
at  the  opportunity,  and  remained  with  them 
until  the  party  returned  to  the  Mackenzie  River 
by  the  way  of  Fort  Providence  five  months 
later.  He  remained  at  Fort  Providence  until 
late  spring,  and  then  came  down  to  Fort  Wrigley, 
where  he  had  several  friends  in  the  service. 
Fifteen  months  of  wandering  had  had  their 
effect  upon  him.  He  could  no  longer  resist 
the  call  of  the  wanderlust.  It  urged  him  from 
place  to  place,  and  stronger  and  stronger  grew 
in  him  the  desire  to  return  to  his  old  country 
along  the  shores  of  the  big  Bay  far  to  the  west. 
He  had  partly  planned  to  join  the  railroad 
builders  on  the  new  trans-continental  in  the 
mountains  of  British  Columbia,  but  in  August, 
instead  of  finding  himself  at  Edmonton  or  Tete 
Jaune  Cache,  he  was  at  Prince  Albert,  three 
241 


ISOBEL 

hundred  and  fifty  miles  to  the  east.  From  this 
point  he  struck  northward  with  a  party  of  com- 
pany men  into  the  Lac  La  Ronge  country,  and 
in  October  swung  eastward  alone  through  the 
Sissipuk  and  Burntwood  waterways  to  Nelson 
House.  He  continued  northward  after  a  week's 
rest,  and  on  the  eighteenth  of  December  the 
first  of  the  two  great  storms  which  made  the 
winter  of  1909-10  one  of  the  most  tragic  in  the 
history  of  the  far  northern  people  overtook  him 
thirty  miles  from  York  Factory.  It  took  him 
five  days  to  reach  the  post,  where  he  was  held 
up  for  several  weeks.  These  were  the  first  of 
those  terrible  weeks  of  famine  and  intense  cold 
during  which  more  than  fifteen  hundred  people 
died  in  the  north  country.  From  the  Barren 
Lands  to  the  edge  of  the  southern  water- 
shed the  earth  lay  under  from  four  to  six  feet 
of  snow,  and  from  the  middle  of  December  until 
late  in  January  the  temperature  did  not  rise 
above  forty  degrees  below  zero,  and  remained 
for  the  most  of  the  time  between  fifty  and  sixty. 
From  all  points  in  the  wilderness  reports  of 
starvation  and  death  came  to  the  company's 
posts.  Trap  lines  could  not  be  followed  because 
of  the  intense  cold.  Moose,  caribou,  and  even 
the  furred  animals  had  buried  themselves  under 
242 


THE    LETTER 

the  snow.  Indians  and  half-breeds  dragged 
themselves  into  the  posts.  Twice  at  York 
Factory  Billy  saw  mothers  who  brought  dead 
babies  in  their  arms.  One  day  a  white  trapper 
came  in  with  his  dogs  and  sledge,  and  on  the 
sledge,  wrapped  in  a  bearskin,  was  his  wife, 
who  had  died  fifty  miles  back  in  the  for- 
est. 

During  these  terrible  weeks  Billy  found  it 
impossible  to  keep  Isobel  and  the  baby  Isobel 
out  of  his  mind  night  or  day.  The  fear  grew 
in  him  that  somewhere  in  the  wilderness  they 
were  suffering  as  others  were  suffering.  So 
obsessed  did  he  become  with  the  thought  that 
he  had  a  terrible  dream  one  night,  and  in  that 
dream  baby  Isobel's  face  appeared  to  him,  a 
deathlike  mask,  white  and  cold  and  thinned  by 
starvation.  The  vision  decided  him.  He  would 
go  to  Fort  Churchill,  and  if  McTabb  had  not 
been  driven  in  he  would  go  to  his  cabin,  over 
on  the  Little  Beaver,  and  learn  what  had  become 
of  Isobel  and  the  little  girl.  A  few  days  later, 
on  the  twenty-seventh  day  of  January,  there 
came  a  sudden  rise  in  the  temperature,  and 
Billy  prepared  at  once  to  take  advantage  of  the 
change.  A  half-breed,  on  his  way  to  Churchill, 
accompanied  him,  and  they  set  out  together  the 
243 


ISOBEL 

following  morning.  On  the  twentieth  of  Febru- 
ary they  arrived  at  Fort  Churchill. 

Billy  went  immediately  to  detachment  head- 
quarters. There  had  been  several  changes  in 
two  years,  and  there  was  only  one  of  the  old 
force  to  shake  hands  with  him.  His  first  in- 
quiry was  about  McTabb  and  Isobel  Deane. 
Neither  was  at  Churchill,  nor  had  been 
there  since  the  arrival  of  the  new  officer  in 
charge.  But  there  was  mail  for  Billy — three 
letters.  There  had  been  half  a  dozen  others, 
but  they  were  now  following  up  his  old  trails 
somewhere  out  in  the  wilderness.  These  three 
had  been  returned  recently  from  Fond  du  Lac. 
One  was  from  Pelliter,  the  fourth  he  had 
written,  he  said,  without  an  answer.  The 
"kid"  had  come — a  girl — and  he  wondered  if 
Billy  was  dead.  The  second  letter  was  from 
his  Cobalt  partner. 

The  third  he  turned  over  several  times  before 
he  opened  it.  It  did  not  look  much  like  a 
letter.  It  was  torn  and  ragged  at  the  edges,  and 
was  so  soiled  and  water-stained  that  the  address 
on  it  was  only  partly  legible.  It  had  been  to 
Fond  du  Lac,  and  from  there  it  had  followed 
him  to  Fort  Chippewyan.  He  opened  it  and 
found  that  the  writing  inside  was  scarcely  more 
244 


THE    LETTER 

legible  than  the  inscription  on  the  envelope. 
The  last  words  were  quite  plain,  and  he  gave  a 
low  cry  when  he  found  that  it  was  from  Rookie 
McTabb. 

He  went  close  to  a  window  and  tried  to  make 
out  what  McTabb  had  written.  Here  and  there, 
where  water  had  not  obliterated  the  writing,  he 
could  make  out  a  line  or  a  few  words.  Nearly 
all  was  gone  but  the  last  paragraph,  and  when 
Billy  came  to  this  and  read  the  first  words  of  it 
his  heart  seemed  all  at  once  to  die  within  him, 
and  he  could  not  see.  Word  by  word  he  made 
out  the  rest  after  that,  and  when  he  was  done  he 
turned  his  stony  face  to  the  white  whirl  of  the 
storm  outside  the  window,  his  lips  as  dry  as 
though  he  had  passed  through  a  fever. 

A  part  of  that  last  paragraph  was  unintelli- 
gible, but  enough  was  left  to  tell  him  what  had 
happened  in  the  cabin  down  on  the  Little  Beaver. 

McTabb  had  written: 

"We  thought  she  was  getting  well  .  .  .  took 
sick  again.  .  .  .  did  everything  .  .  .  could.  But 
it  didn't  do  any  good.  .  .  .  died  fust  five  weeks  to  a 
day  after  you  left.  We  buried  her  just  behind  the 
cabin.  God  .  .  .  that  kid  .  .  .  You  don't  know 
how  I  got  to  love  her,  Billy.  .  .  .  give  her  up  .  .  ." 

McTabb  had  written  a  dozen  lines  after  that, 
245 


ISOBEL 

but  all  of  them  were  a  water-stained  and  un- 
intelligible blur. 

Billy  crushed  the  letter  in  his  hand.  The  new 
inspector  wondered  what  terrible  news  he  had 
received  as  he  walked  out  into  the  blinding  chaos 
of  the  storm. 


XXI 

THE   FIGHTING   SPARK 

FOR  ten  minutes  Billy  buried  himself 
blindly  in  the  storm.  He  scarcely  knew 
which  direction  he  took,  but  at  last  he  found 
himself  in  the  shelter  of  the  forest,  and  he  was 
whispering  Isobel's  name  over  and  over  again  to 
himself. 

"Dead — dead—"  he  moaned.  "She  is  dead 
-dead—" 

And  then  there  rushed  upon  him,  crushing 
back  his  deeper  grief,  a  thought  of  the  baby 
Isobel.  She  was  still  with  McTabb  down  on  the 
Little  Beaver.  In  the  blur  of  the  storm  he  read 
again  what  he  could  make  out  of  Rookie's 
letter.  Something  in  that  last  paragraph  struck 
him  with  a  deadly  fear.  "God  .  .  .  that  kid  .  .  . 
You  don't  know  how  I  got  to  love  her,  Billy.  .  .  . 
give  her  up  .  .  ." 

What  did  it  mean?    What  had  McTabb  told 
him  in  that  part  of  the  letter  that  was  gone? 
247 


ISOBEL 

The  reaction  came  as  he  put  the  letter  back 
into  his  pocket.  He  walked  swiftly  back  to  the 
inspector's  office. 

"I'm  going  down  to  the  Little  Beaver.  I'm 
going  to  start  to-day,"  he  said.  "Who  is  there 
in  Churchill  that  I  can  get  to  go  with  me?" 

Two  hours  later  Billy  was  ready  to  start,  with 
an  Indian  as  a  companion.  Dogs  could  not  be 
had  for  love  or  money,  and  they  set  out  on  snow- 
shoes  with  two  weeks'  supply  of  provisions, 
striking  south  and  west.  The  remainder  of 
that  day  and  the  next  they  traveled  with  but 
little  rest.  Each  hour  that  passed  added  to 
Billy's  mad  impatience  to  reach  McTabb's 
cabin. 

With  the  morning  of  the  third  day  began  the 
second  of  those  two  terrible  storms  which  swept 
over  the  northland  in  that  winter  of  famine  and 
death.  In  spite  of  the  Indian's  advice  to  build 
a  permanent  camp  until  the  temperature  rose 
again  Billy  insisted  on  pushing  ahead.  The 
fifth  night,  in  the  wild  Barren  country  west 
of  the  Etawney,  his  Indian  failed  to  keep  up  the 
fire,  and  when  Billy  investigated  he  found  him 
half  dead  with  a  strange  sickness.  He  made 
the  Indian's  balsam  shelter  snow  and  wind 
proof,  cut  wood,  and  waited.  The  temperature 
248 


THE    FIGHTING   SPARK 

continued  to  fall,  and  the  cold  became  intense. 
Each  day  the  provisions  grew  less,  and  at  last 
the  time  came  when  Billy  knew  that  he  was 
standing  face  to  face  with  the  Great  Peril.  He 
went  farther  and  farther  from  camp  in  his  search 
for  game.  Even  the  brush  sparrows  and  snow- 
hawks  were  gone.  Once  the  thought  came  to 
him  that  he  might  take  what  food  was  left  and 
accept  the  little  chance  that  remained  of  saving 
himself.  But  the  idea  never  got  farther  than  a 
first  thought.  On  the  twelfth  day  the  Indian 
died.  It  was  a  terrible  day.  There  was  food 
for  another  twenty-four  hours. 

Billy  packed  it,  together  with  his  blankets 
and  a  few  pieces  of  tinware.  He  wondered  if 
the  Indian  had  died  of  a  contagious  disease. 
Anyway,  he  made  up  his  mind  to  put  out  the 
warning  for  others  if  they  came  that  way,  and 
over  the  dead  Indian's  balsam  shelter  he  planted 
a  sapling,  and  at  the  end  of  the  sapling  he 
fastened  a  strip  of  red  cotton  cloth — the  plague 
signal  of  the  north. 

Then  he  struck  out  through  the  deep  snows 
and  the  twisting  storm,  knowing  that  there  was 
no  more  than  one  chance  in  a  thousand  ahead 
of  him,  and  that  the  one  chance  was  to  keep  the 
wind  at  his  back. 

249 


ISOBEL 

At  the  end  of  his  first  day's  struggle  Billy 
built  himself  a  camp  in  a  bit  of  scrub  timber 
which  was  not  much  more  than  bush.  He  had 
observed  that  the  timber  and  that  every  tree 
and  bush  he  had  passed  since  noon  was  stripped 
and  dead  on  the  side  that  faced  the  north.  He 
cooked  and  ate  his  last  food  the  following  day, 
and  went  on.  The  small  timber  turned  to 
scrub,  and  the  scrub,  in  time,  to  vast  snow 
wastes  over  which  the  storm  swept  mercilessly. 
All  this  day  he  looked  for  game,  for  a  flutter 
of  bird  life;  he  chewed  bark,  and  in  the  after- 
noon got  a  mouthful  of  foxbite,  which  made 
his  throat  swell  until  he  could  scarcely  breathe. 
At  night  he  made  tea,  but  had  nothing  to  eat. 
His  hunger  was  acute  and  painful.  It  was  tor- 
ture the  next  day — the  third — for  the  process  of 
starvation  is  a  rapid  one  in  this  country  where 
only  the  fittest  survive  on  from  four  to  five 
meals  a  day.  He  camped,  built  a  small  bush- 
fire  at  night,  and  slept.  He  almost  failed  to 
rouse  himself  on  the  morning  that  followed,  and 
when  he  staggered  to  his  feet  and  felt  the  cutting 
sting  of  the  storm  still  in  his  face  and  heard  the 
swishing  wail  of  it  over  the  Barren  he  knew  that 
at  last  the  hour  had  come  when  he  was  standing 
face  to  face  with  the  Almighty. 
250 


THE    FIGHTING   SPARK 

For  some  strange  reason  he  was  not  frightened 
at  the  situation.  He  found  that  even  over  the 
level  spaces  he  could  scarce  drag  his  snow-shoes, 
but  this  had  ceased  to  alarm  him  as  he  had  been 
alarmed  at  first.  He  went  on,  hour  after  hour, 
weaker  and  weaker.  Within  himself  there  was 
still  life  which  reasoned  that  if  death  were  to 
come  it  could  not  come  in  a  better  way.  It  at 
least  promised  to  be  painless — even  pleasant. 
The  sharp,  stinging  pains  of  hunger,  like  little 
electrical  knives  piercing  him,  were  gone;  he 
no  longer  experienced  a  sensation  of  intense 
cold;  he  almost  felt  that  he  could  lie  down  in  the 
drifted  snow  and  sleep  peacefully.  He  knew 
what  it  would  be — a  sleep  without  end,  with 
the  arctic  foxes  to  pick  his  bones  afterward — and 
so  he  resisted  the  temptation  and  forced  him- 
self onward.  The  storm  still  swept  straight 
west  from  Hudson's  Bay,  bringing  with  it  end- 
less volleys  of  snow,  round  and  hard  as  fine  shot, 
snow  that  had  at  first  seemed  to  pierce  his 
flesh  and  which  swished  past  his  feet  as  if 
trying  to  trip  him  and  tossed  itself  in  windrows 
and  mountains  in  his  path.  If  he  could  only 
find  timber,  shelter !  That  was  what  he  worked 
for  now.  When  he  had  last  looked  at  his  watch 
it  was  nine  o'clock  in  the  morning;  now  it  was 
17  251 


ISOBEL 

late  in  the  afternoon.  It  might  as  well  have 
been  night.  The  storm  had  long  since  half 
blinded  him.  He  could  not  see  a  dozen  paces 
ahead.  But  the  little  life  in  him  still  reasoned 
bravely.  It  was  a  heroic  spark  of  life,  a  fighting 
spark,  and  hard  to  put  out.  It  told  him  that 
when  he  came  to  shelter  he  would  at  least  feel 
it,  and  that  he  must  fight  until  the  last.  The 
pack  on  his  back  held  no  significance  and  no 
weight  for  him.  He  might  have  traveled  a  mile 
or  ten  miles  an  hour  and  he  would  not  have 
sensed  the  difference.  Most  men  would  have 
buried  themselves  in  the  snow  and  died  in  com- 
fort, dreaming  the  pleasant  dreams  that  come 
as  a  sort  of  recompense  to  the  unfortunate  who 
dies  of  starvation  and  cold.  But  the  fighting 
spark  commanded  Billy  to  die  upon  his  feet  if 
he  died  at  all.  It  was  this  spark  which  brought 
him  at  last  to  a  bit  of  timber  thick  enough  to 
give  him  shelter  from  wind  and  snow.  It 
burned  a  little  more  warmly  then.  It  flared 
up  and  gave  him  new  vision.  And  then,  for  the 
first  time,  he  realized  that  it  must  be  night. 
For  a  light  was  burning  ahead  of  him,  and  all 
else  was  gloom.  His  first  thought  was  that  it 
was  a  campfire  miles  and  miles  away.  Then 
it  drew  nearer,  until  he  knew  that  it  was  a  light 
252 


THE    FIGHTING   SPARK 

in  a  cabin  window.  He  dragged  himself  toward 
it,  and  when  he  came  to  the  door  he  tried  to 
shout.  But  no  sound  fell  from  his  swollen  lips. 
It  seemed  an  hour  before  he  could  twist  his  feet 
out  of  his  snow-shoes.  Then  he  groped  for  a 
latch,  pressed  against  the  door,  and  plunged  in. 
What  he  saw  was  like  a  picture  suddenly 
revealed  for  an  instant  by  a  flashlight.  In  the 
cabin  there  were  four  men.  Two  sat  at  a 
table  directly  in  front  of  him.  One  held  a 
dice  box  poised  in  the  air,  and  had  turned  a 
rough,  bearded  face  toward  him.  The  other 
was  a  younger  man,  and  in  this  moment  it 
struck  Billy  as  strange  that  he  should  be  clutch- 
ing a  can  of  beans  between  his  hands.  A  third 
man  stared  from  where  he  had  been  looking 
down  upon  the  dice-play  of  the  other  two.  As 
Billy  came  in  he  was  in  the  act  of  lowering  a 
half -rilled  bottle  from  his  lips.  The  fourth  man 
sat  on  the  edge  of  a  bunk,  with  a  face  so  white 
and  thin  that  he  might  have  been  taken  for 
a  corpse  if  it  had  not  been  for  the  dark 
glare  in  his  sunken  eyes.  Billy  smelled  the 
odor  of  whisky;  he  smelled  food.  He  saw  no 
sign  of  welcome  in  the  faces  turned  toward  him, 
but  he  advanced  upon  them,  mumbling  in- 
coherently. And  then  the  spark,  the  righting 
253 


ISOBEL 

spark  in  him,  gave  out,  and  he  crumpled  down 
on  the  floor.  He  heard  a  voice  which  came  to 
him  from  a  great  distance,  and  which  said, 
"Who  the  hell  is  this?"  and  then,  after  what 
seemed  to  be  a  long  time,  he  heard  that  same 
voice  say,  "Pitch  him  back  into  the  snow." 

After  that  he  lost  consciousness.  But  in  that 
last  moment  between  light  and  darkness  he 
experienced  a  strange  thrill  that  made  him  want 
to  spring  to  his  feet,  for  it  seemed  to  him  that 
he  had  recognized  the  voice  that  had  said  "Pitch 
him  back  into  the  snow." 


XXII 

INTO   THE   SOUTH 

A^ONG  time  before  he  awoke  Billy  knew 
that  he  was  not  in  the  snow,  and  that  hot 
stuff  was  running  down  his  throat.  When  he 
opened  his  eyes  there  was  no  longer  a  light 
burning  in  the  cabin.  It  was  day.  He  felt 
strangely  comfortable,  but  there  was  something 
in  the  cabin  that  stirred  him  from  his  rest.  It 
was  the  odor  of  frying  bacon.  All  of  his  hunger 
had  come  back.  The  joy  of  life,  of  anticipation, 
shone  in  his  thin  face  as  he  pulled  himself  up. 
Another  face — the  bearded  face — red-eyed,  al- 
most animal-like  in  its  fierce  questioning,  bent 
over  him. 

"Where's  your  grub,  pardner?" 

The  question  was  like  a  stab.  Billy  did  not 
hear  his  own  voice  as  he  explained. 

"Got  none!"  The  bearded  man's  voice  was 
like  a  bellow  as  he  turned  upon  the  others. 
"He's  got  no  grub!" 

255 


ISOBEL 

In  that  moment  Billy  choked  back  the  cry 
on  his  lips.  He  knew  the  voice  now — -and  the 
man.  It  was  Bucky  Smith!  He  half  rose  to 
his  feet  and  then  dropped  back.  Bucky  had 
not  recognized  him.  His  own  beard,  shaggy 
hair,  and  pinched  face  had  saved  him  from 
recognition.  Fate  had  played  his  way. 

"We'll  divvy  up,  Bucky,"  came  a  weak  voice. 
It  was  from  the  thin,  white-faced  man  who  had 
sat  corpselike  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk  the  night 
before. 

"Divvy  hell!"  growled  the  other.  "It's  up 
to  you — you  'n'  Sweedy.  You're  to  blame!" 

You're  to  blame ! 

The  words  struck  upon  Billy's  ears  with  a 
chill  of  horror.  Starvation  was  in  the  cabin. 
He  had  fallen  among  animals  instead  of  men. 
He  saw  the  thin-faced  man  who  had  spoken 
for  him  sitting  again  on  the  edge  of  his  bunk. 
Mutely  he  looked  to  the  others  to  see  who  was 
Sweedy.  He  was  the  young  man  who  had 
clutched  the  can  of  beans.  It  was  he  who  was 
frying  bacon  over  the  sheet-iron  stove. 

"We'll  diwy,  Henry  and  I,"  he  said.     "I 

told  you  that  last  night."     He  looked  over  at 

Billy.     "Glad  you're  better,  "he  greeted.    "You 

see,  you've  struck  us  at  a  bad  time.     We're  on 

256 


INTO   THE    SOUTH 

our  last  legs  for  grub.  Our  two  Indians  went 
out  to  hunt  a  week  ago  and  never  came  back. 
They're  dead,  or  gone,  and  we're  as  good  as  dead 
if  the  storm  doesn't  let  up  pretty  soon.  You 
can  have  some  of  our  grub — Henry's  and 
mine." 

It  was  a  cold  invitation,  lacking  warmth  or 
sympathy,  and  Billy  felt  that  even  this  man 
wished  that  he  had  died  before  he  reached  the 
cabin.  But  the  man  was  human;  he  had  at 
least  not  cast  his  voice  with  the  one  that  had 
wanted  to  throw  him  back  into  the  snow,  and 
he  tried  to  voice  his  gratitude  and  at  the  same 
time  to  hide  his  hunger.  He  saw  that  there 
were  three  thin  slices  of  bacon  in  the  frying-pan, 
and  it  struck  him  that  it  would  be  bad  taste  to 
reveal  a  starvation  appetite  in  the  face  of  such 
famine.  Bucky  was  looking  straight  at  him  as 
he  limped  to  his  feet,  and  he  was  sure  now  that 
the  man  he  had  driven  from  the  Service  had 
not  recognized  him.  He  approached  Sweedy. 

"You  saved  my  life,"  he  said,  holding  out  a 
hand.  "Will  you  shake?" 

Sweedy  shook  hands  limply. 

"It's  hell,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "We'd 
have  had  beans  this  morning  if  I  hadn't  shook 
dice  with  him  last  night."  He  nodded  toward 
257 


ISOBEL 

Bucky,  who  was  cutting  open  the  top  of  a  can. 
"He  won!" 

"My  God—"  began  Billy. 

He  didn't  finish.  Sweedy  turned  the  meat, 
and  added: 

"He  won  a  square  meal  off  me  yesterday — a 
quarter  of  a  pound  of  bacon.  Day  before  that 
he  won  Henry's  last  can  of  beans.  He's  got  his 
share  under  his  blanket  over  there,  and  swears 
he'll  shoot  any  one  who  goes  to  monkeyin'  with 
his  bed — so  you'd  better  fight  shy  of  it.  Thomp- 
son— he  isn't  up  yet — chose  the  whisky  for  his 
share,  so  you'd  better  fight  shy  of  him,  too. 
Henry  and  I'll  diwy  up  with  you." 

"Thanks,"  said  Billy,  the  one  word  choking 
him. 

Henry  came  from  his  bunk,  bent  and  wab- 
bling. He  looked  like  a  dying  man,  and  for  the 
first  time  Billy  noticed  that  his  hair  was  gray. 
He  was  a  little  man,  and  his  thin  hands  shook  as 
he  held  them  out  over  the  stove  and  nodded 
to  Billy.  Bucky  had  opened  his  can,  and  ap- 
proached the  stove  with  a  pan  of  water,  coming 
in  beside  Billy  without  noticing  him.  He 
brought  with  him  a  foul  odor  of  stale  tobacco 
smoke  and  whisky.  After  he  had  put  his 
water  over  the  fire  he  turned  to  one  of  the  bunks 
258 


INTO   THE   SOUTH 

and  with  half  a  dozen  coarse  epithets  roused 
Thompson,  who  sat  up  stupidly,  still  half 
drunk.  Henry  had  gone  to  a  small  table,  and 
Sweedy  followed  him  with  the  bacon.  Billy 
did  not  move.  He  forgot  his  hunger.  His 
pulse  was  beating  quickly.  Sensations  filled 
him  which  he  had  never  known  or  imagined 
before.  Was  it  possible  that  these  were  people 
of  his  own  kind?  Had  a  madness  of  some  sort 
driven  all  human  instincts  from  them?  He 
saw  Thompson's  red  eyes  fastened  upon  him, 
and  he  turned  his  face  to  escape  their  question- 
ing, stupid  leer.  Bucky  was  turning  out  the 
can  of  beans  he  had  won.  Beyond  him  the 
door  creaked,  and  Billy  heard  the  wail  of  the 
storm.  It  came  to  him  now  as  a  friendly  sort 
of  sound. 

"Better  draw  up,  pardner,"  he  heard  Sweedy 
say.  ' '  Here's  your  share. ' ' 

One  of  the  thin  slices  of  bacon  and  a  hard 
biscuit  were  waiting  for  him  on  a  tin  plate.  He 
ate  as  ravenously  as  Henry  and  Sweedy,  and 
drank  a  cup  of  hot  tea.  In  two  minutes  the 
meal  was  over.  It  was  terribly  inadequate. 
The  few  mouthfuls  of  food  stirred  up  all  his 
craving,  and  he  found  it  impossible  to  keep 
his  eyes  from  Bucky  Smith  and  his  beans. 
259 


ISOBEL 

Bucky  was  the  only  one  who  seemed  well  fed, 
and  his  horror  increased  when  Henry  bent  over 
him  and  said,  in  a  low  whisper:  "He  didn't 
get  my  beans  fair.  I  had  three  aces  and  a  pair 
of  deuces,  an'  he  took  it  on  three  fives  and  two 
sixes.  When  I  objected  he  called  me  a  liar 
an'  hit  me.  Them's  my  beans,  or  Sweedy's!" 
There  was  something  almost  like  murder  in  the 
little  man's  red  eyes. 

Billy  remained  silent.  He  did  not  care  to 
talk  or  question.  No  one  asked  him  who  he 
was  or  whence  he  came,  and  he  felt  no  inclina- 
tion to  know  more  of  the  men  he  had  fallen 
among.  Bucky  finished,  wiped  his  mouth  with 
his  hand,  and  looked  across  at  Billy. 

"How  about  going  out  with  me  to  get  some 
wood?"  he  demanded. 

"I'm  ready,"  replied  Billy. 

For  the  first  time  he  took  notice  of  himself. 
He  was  lame  and  sickeningly  weak,  but  appar- 
ently sound  in  other  ways.  The  intense  cold 
had  not  frozen  his  ears  or  feet.  He  put  on  his 
heavy  moccasins,  his  thick  coat  and  fur  cap, 
and  followed  Bucky  to  the  door.  He  was  filled 
with  a  strange  uneasiness.  He  was  sure  that 
his  old  enemy  had  not  recognized  him,  and  yet 
he  felt  that  recognition  might  come  at  any 
260 


INTO   THE    SOUTH 

moment.  If  Bucky  recognized  him — when  they 
were  out  alone — 

He  was  not  afraid,  but  he  shivered.  He  was 
too  weak  to  put  up  a  fight.  He  did  not  catch 
the  ugly  leer  which  Bucky  turned  upon  Thomp- 
son. But  Henry  did,  and  his  little  eyes  grew 
smaller  and  blacker.  On  snow-shoes  the  two 
men  went  out  into  the  storm,  Bucky  carrying 
an  ax.  He  led  the  way  through  the  bit  of  thin 
timber,  and  across  a  wide  open  over  which  the 
storm  swept  so  fiercely  that  their  trail  was 
covered  behind  them  as  they  traveled.  Billy 
figured  that  they  had  gone  a  quarter  of  a  mile 
when  they  came  to  the  edge  of  a  ravine  so  steep 
that  it  was  almost  a  precipice.  For  the  first 
time  Bucky  touched  him.  He  seized  him  by 
the  arm,  and  in  his  voice  there  was  an  inhuman, 
taunting  triumph. 

" Didn't  think  I  knew  you,  did  you,  Billy?" 
he  asked.  "Well,  I  did,  and  I've  just  been 
waiting  to  get  you  out  alone.  Remember  my 
promise,  Billy?  I've  changed  my  mind  since 
then.  I  ain't  going  to  kill  you.  It's  too  risky. 
It's  safer  to  let  you  die — by  yourself — as  you're 
goin'  to  die  to-day  or  to-night.  If  you  come 
back  to  the  cabin — I'll  shoot  you!" 

With  a  movement  so  quick  that  Billy  had 
261 


ISOBEL 

no  chance  to  prepare  himself  for  it  Bucky  sent 
him  plunging  headlong  down  the  side  of  the 
ravine.  The  deep  snow  saved  him  in  the  long 
fall.  For  a  few  moments  Billy  lay  stunned. 
Then  he  staggered  to  his  feet  and  looked  up. 
Bucky  was  gone.  His  first  thought  was  to 
return  to  the  cabin.  He  could  easily  find  it 
and  confront  Bucky  there  before  the  others. 
And  yet  he  did  not  move.  His  inclination  to  go 
back  grew  less  and  less,  and  after  a  brief  hesita- 
tion he  made  up  his  mind  to  continue  the 
struggle  for  life  by  himself.  After  all,  his 
situation  would  not  be  much  more  desperate 
than  that  of  the  men  he  was  leaving  behind  in 
the  cabin.  He  buttoned  himself  up  closely, 
saw  that  his  snow-shoes  were  securely  fastened, 
and  climbed  the  opposite  side  of  the  ridge. 

The  timber  thinned  out  again,  and  Billy 
struck  out  boldly  into  the  low  bush.  As  he 
went  he  wondered  what  would  happen  in  the 
cabin.  He  believed  that  Henry,  of  the  four, 
would  not  pull  through  alive,  and  that  Bucky 
would  come  out  best.  It  was  not  until  the 
following  summer  that  he  learned  the  facts  of 
Henry's  madness,  and  of  the  terrible  manner  in 
which  he  avenged  himself  on  Bucky  Smith  by 
sticking  a  knife  under  the  latter's  ribs. 
262 


INTO   THE    SOUTH 

Billy  now  found  himself  in  a  position  to 
measure  the  amount  of  energy  contained  in  a 
slice  of  bacon  and  a  cold  biscuit.  It  was  not 
much.  Long  before  noon  his  old  weakness  was 
upon  him  again.  He  found  even  greater  diffi- 
culty in  dragging  his  feet  over  the  snow,  and  it 
seemed  now  as  though  all  ambition  had  left 
him,  and  that  even  the  fighting  spark  was  be- 
coming disheartened.  He  made  up  his  mind  to 
go  on  until  the  beginning  of  night,  then  he 
would  stop,  build  a  fire,  and  go  to  sleep  in  its 
warmth. 

During  the  afternoon  he  passed  out  of  the 
scrub  into  a  rougher  country.  His  progress  was 
slower,  but  more  comfortable,  for  at  times  he 
found  himself  protected  from  the  wind.  A 
gloom  darker  and  more  somber  than  that  of  the 
storm  was  falling  about  him  when  he  came  to 
what  appeared  to  be  the  end  of  the  Barren 
country.  The  earth  dropped  away  from  under 
his  feet,  and  far  below  him,  in  a  ravine  shut 
out  from  wind  and  storm,  he  saw  the  black  tops 
of  thick  spruce.  He  began  »to  scramble  down- 
ward. His  eyes  were  no  longer  fit  to  judge 
distance  or  chance,  and  he  slipped.  He  slipped 
a  dozen  times  in  the  first  five  minutes,  and  then 
there  came  the  time  when  he  did  not  make  a 
263 


ISOBEL 

recovery,  but  plunged  down  the  side  of  the 
mountain  like  a  rock.  He  stopped  with  a 
terrific  jar,  and  for  the  first  time  during  the  fall 
he  wanted  to  cry  out  with  pain.  But  the  voice 
that  he  heard  did  not  come  from  his  own  lips. 
It  was  another  voice — and  then  two,  three, 
many  of  them,  it  seemed  to  him.  His  dazed 
eyes  caught  glimpses  of  dark  objects  flounder- 
ing in  the  deep  snow  about  him,  and  just  be- 
yond these  objects  were  four  or  five  tall  mounds 
of  snow,  like  tents,  arranged  in  a  circle.  He 
knew  what  they  meant.  He  had  fallen  into  an 
Indian  camp.  In  his  joy  he  tried  to  call  out 
words  of  greeting,  but  he  had  no  tongue.  *Then 
the  floundering  figures  caught  him  up,  and  he 
was  carried  to  the  circle  of  snow  mounds.  The 
last  that  he  knew  was  that  warmth  was  enter- 
ing his  lungs. 

It  was  a  face  that  he  first  saw  after  that,  a 
face  that  seemed  to  come  to  him  slowly  from 
out  of  night,  approaching  nearer  and  nearer  un- 
til he  knew  that  it  was  a  girl's  face,  with  great, 
dark,  strangely  shining  eyes.  In  these  first 
moments  of  his  returning  consciousness  the 
whimsical  thought  came  to  him  that  he  was 
dying  and  the  face  was  a  part  of  a  pleasant 
dream.  If  that  were  not  so,  he  had  fallen  at 
264 


INTO   THE    SOUTH 

last  among  friends.  His  eyes  opened  wider,  he 
moved,  and  the  face  drew  back.  Movement 
stimulated  returning  life,  and  reason  rehabil- 
itated itself  in  great  bounds.  In  a  dozen 
flashes  he  went  over  all  that  had  happened  up 
to  the  point  where  he  had  fallen  down  the 
mountain  and  into  the  Cree  camp.  Straight 
above  him  he  saw  the  funnel-like  peak  of  a 
large  birch  wigwam,  and  beyond  his  feet  he  saw 
an  opening  in  the  birch-bark  wall  through 
which  there  drifted  a  blue  film  of  smoke.  He 
was  in  a  wigwam.  It  was  warm  and  exceed- 
ingly comfortable.  Wondering  if  he  was  hurt, 
he  moved.  The  movement  drew  a  sharp  ex- 
clamation of  pain  from  him.  It  was  the  first 
real  sound  he  had  made,  and  in  an  instant  the 
face  was  over  him  again.  He  saw  it  plainly 
this  time,  with  its  dark  eyes  and  oval  cheeks 
framed  between  two  great  braids  of  black  hair. 
A  hand  touched  his  brow,  cool  and  gentle,  and 
a  low  voice  soothed  him  in  half  a  dozen  musical 
words.  The  girl  was  a  Cree. 

At  the  sound  of  her  voice  an  Indian  woman 
came  up  beside  the  girl,  looked  down  at  him  for 
a  moment,  and  then  went  to  the  door  of  the 
wigwam,  speaking  in  a  low  voice  to  some  one 
who  was  outside.  When  she  returned  a  man  fol- 
265 


ISOBEL 

lowed  in  after  her.  He  was  old  and  bent,  and 
his  face  was  thin.  His  cheek-bones  shone,  so 
tightly  was  the  skin  drawn  over  them.  Behind 
him  came  a  younger  man,  as  straight  as  a  tree, 
with  strong  shoulders  and  a  head  set  like  a 
piece  of  bronze  sculpture.  This  man  carried  in 
his  hand  a  frozen  fish,  which  he  gave  to  the 
woman.  As  he  gave  it  to  her  he  spoke  words 
in  Cree  which  Billy  understood. 

"It  is  the  last  fish." 

For  a  moment  a  terrible  hand  gripped  at 
Billy's  heart  and  almost  stopped  its  beating. 
He  saw  the  woman  take  the  fish  and  cut  it  into 
two  equal  parts  with  a  knife,  and  one  of  these 
parts  she  dropped  into  a  pot  of  boiling  water 
which  hung  over  the  stone  fireplace  built  under 
the  vent  in  the  wall.  They  were  dividing  with 
him  their  last  fish!  He  made  an  effort  and  sat 
up.  The  younger  man  came  to  him  and  put 
a  bearskin  at  his  back.  He  had  picked  up 
some  of  the  patois  of  half-blood  French  and 
English. 

"You  seek,"  he  said,  "you  hurt — and  hun- 
gry !  You  have  eat  soon. ' ' 

He  motioned  with  his  hand  to  the  boiling 
pot.  There  was  not  a  flicker  of  animation  in 
his  splendid  face.  There  was  something  god- 
266 


INTO   THE   SOUTH 

like  in  his  immobility,  something  that  was  awe- 
some in  the  way  he  moved  and  breathed.  He 
sat  in  silence  as  the  half  of  the  last  fish  was 
brought  by  the  girl ;  and  not  until  Billy  stopped 
eating,  choked  by  the  knowledge  that  he  was 
taking  life  from  these  people,  did  he  speak,  and 
then  it  was  to  urge  him  to  finish  the  fish.  When 
he  had  done,  Billy  spoke  to  the  Indian  in  Cree. 
Instantly  the  Indian  reached  over  his  hand,  his 
face  lighting  up,  and  Billy  gripped  it  hard. 
Mukoki  told  him  what  had  happened.  There 
had  been  a  camp  of  twenty-two,  and  there  were 
now  fifteen.  Seven  had  died — four  men,  two 
women,  and  one  child.  Each  day  during  the 
great  storm  the  men  had  gone  out  on  their 
futile  search  for  game,  and  every  few  days  one 
of  them  had  failed  to  return.  Thus  four  had 
died.  The  dogs  were  eaten.  Corn  and  fish 
were  gone;  there  remained  but  a  little  flour, 
and  this  was  for  the  women  and  the  children. 
The  men  had  eaten  nothing  but  bark  and  roots 
for  five  days.  And  there  seemed  to  be  no  hope. 
It  was  death  to  stray  far  from  camp.  That 
morning  two  men  had  set  out  for  the  nearest 
post,  but  Mukoki  said  calmly  that  they  would 
never  return. 

That  night  and  the  next  day  and  the  terrible 
18  267 


ISOBEL 

night  and  day  that  followed  were  filled  with 
hours  that  Billy  would  never  forget.  He  had 
sprained  one  hip  badly  in  his  fall,  and  could  not 
rise  from  the  cot.  Mukoki  was  often  at  his 
side,  his  face  thinner,  his  eyes  more  lusterless. 
The  second  day,  late  in  the  afternoon,  there 
came  a  low  wailing  grief  from  one  of  the  tepees, 
a  moaning  sound  that  pitched  itself  to  the  key 
of  the  storm  until  it  seemed  to  be  a  part  of  it. 
A  child  had  died,  and  the  mother  was  mourning. 
That  night  another  of  the  camp  huntsmen 
failed  to  return  at  dusk.  But  the  next  day 
there  came  at  the  same  time  'the  end  of  both 
storm  and  famine.  With  dawn  the  sun  shone. 
And  early  in  the  day  one  of  the  hunters  ran  in 
from  the  forest  nearly  crazed  with  joy.  He  had 
ventured  farther  away  than  the  others,  and  had 
found  a  moose-yard.  He  had  killed  two  of  the 
animals  and  brought  with  him  meat  for  the  first 
feast. 

This  last  great  storm  of  the  winter  of  1910 
passed  well  into  the  "break-up"  season,  and, 
once  the  temperature  began  to  rise,  the  change 
was  swift.  Within  a  week  the  snow  was  growing 
soft  underfoot.  Two  days  later  Billy  hobbled 
from  his  cot  for  the  first  time.  And  then,  in 
the  passing  of  a  single  day  and  night,  the  glory 
268 


INTO   THE    SOUTH 

of  the  northern  spring  burst  upon  the  wilder- 
ness. The  sun  rose  warm  and  golden.  From 
the  sides  of  the  mountains  and  in  the  valleys 
water  poured  forth  in  rippling,  singing  floods. 
The  red  bakneesh  glowed  on  bared  rocks. 
Moose-birds  and  jays  and  wood-thrushes  flitted 
about  the  camp,  and  the  air  was  filled  with  the 
fragrant  smells  of  new  life  bursting  from  earth 
and  tree  and  shrub. 

With  return  of  health  and  strength  Billy's 
impatience  to  reach  McTabb's  cabin  grew 
hourly.  He  would  have  set  out  before  his  hip 
was  in  condition  to  travel  had  not  Mukoki  kept 
him  back.  At  last  the  day  came  when  he  bade 
his  forest  friends  good-by  and  started  into  the 
south. 


XXIII 

AT   THE   END   OF   THE   TRAIL 

THE  long  days  and  nights  of  inactivity 
which  Billy  had  passed  in  the  Indian  camp 
had  given  him  the  opportunity  to  think  more 
calmly  of  the  tragedy  which  had  come  into  his 
life,  and  with  returning  strength  he  had  drawn 
himself  partly  out  from  the  pit  of  hopelessness 
and  despair  into  which  he  had  fallen.  Deane 
was  dead.  Isobel  was  dead.  But  the  baby 
Isobel  still  lived ;  and  in  the  hope  of  rinding  and 
claiming  her  for  his  own  he  built  other  dreams 
for  himself  out  of  the  ashes  of  all  that  had 
gone  for  him.  He  believed  that  he  would 
find  McTabb  at  the  cabin  and  he  would  find 
the  child  there.  So  confident  had  he  been  that 
Isobel  would  live  that  he  had  not  told  McTabb 
of  the  uncle  who  had  driven  her  from  the  old 
home  in  Montreal.  He  was  glad  that  he  had 
kept  this  to  himself,  for  there  would  not  be 
much  of  a  chance  of  Rookie  having  found  the 
270 


AT   THE   END   OF   THE   TRAIL 

child's  relative.  And  he  made  up  his  mind  that 
he  would  not  give  the  little  Isobel  up.  He 
would  keep  her  for  himself.  He  would  return 
to  civilization,  for  he  would  have  her  to  live 
for.  He  would  build  a  home  for  her,  with 
a  garden  and  dogs  and  birds  and  flowers. 
With  his  silver -claim  money  he  had  fifteen 
thousand  dollars  laid  away,  and  she  would 
never  know  what  it  meant  to  be  poor.  He 
would  educate  her  and  buy  her  a  piano  and  she 
would  have  no  end  of  pretty  dresses  and  things 
to  make  her  a  lady.  They  would  be  together 
and  inseparable  always,  and  when  she  grew  up 
he  prayed  deep  down  in  his  soul  that  she  would 
be  like  the  older  Isobel,  her  mother. 

His  grief  was  deep.  He  knew  that  he  could 
never  forget,  and  that  the  old  memories  of  the 
wilderness  and  of  the  woman  he  had  loved 
would  force  themselves  upon  him,  year  after 
year,  with  their  old  pain.  But  these  new 
thoughts  and  plans  for  the  child  made  his 
grief  less  poignant. 

It  was  late  in  the  afternoon  of  a  day  that  had 
been  filled  with  sunlight  and  the  warmth  of 
spring  that  he  came  to  the  Little  Beaver,  a 
short  distance  above  McTabb's  cabin.  He 
almost  ran  from  there  to  the  clearing,  and  the 
271 


ISOBEL 

sun  was  just  sinking  behind  the  forest  in  the 
west  when  he  paused  on  the  edge  of  the  break 
in  the  forest  and  saw  the  cabin.  It  was  from 
here  that  he  had  last  seen  little  Isobel.  The 
bush  behind  which  he  had  concealed  himself 
was  less  than  a  dozen  paces  away.  He  noticed 
this,  and  then  he  observed  things  which  made 
his  heart  sink  in  a  strange,  cold  way.  A  path 
had  led  into  the  forest  at  the  point  where  he 
stood.  Now  it  was  almost  obliterated  by  a 
tangle  of  last  year's  weeds  and  plants.  Rookie 
must  have  made  a  new  path,  he  thought.  And 
then,  fearfully,  he  looked  about  the  clearing 
and  at  the  cabin.  Everywhere  there  was  the 
air  of  desolation.  There  was  no  smoke  rising 
from  the  chimney.  The  door  was  closed. 
There  were  no  evidences  of  life  outside.  Not 
the  sound  of  a  dog,  of  a  laugh,  or  of  a  voice 
broke  the  dead  stillness. 

Scarcely  breathing,  Billy  advanced,  his  heart 
choked  more  and  more  by  the  fear  that  gripped 
him.  The  door  to  the  cabin  was  not  barred. 
He  opened  it.  There  was  nothing  inside.  The 
old  stove  was  broken.  The  bare  cots  had  not 
been  used  for  months — perhaps  for  two  years. 
As  he  took  another  step  an  ermine  scampered 
away  ahead  of  him.  He  heard  the  mouselike 
272 


AT   THE    E.ND   OF   THE   TRAIL 

squeal  of  its  young  a  moment  later  under  the 
sapling  floor.  He  went  back  to  the  door  and 
stood  in  the  open. 

"My  God!"  he  moaned. 

He  looked  in  the  direction  of  Couchee's  cabin, 
where  Isobel  had  died.  Was  there  a  chance 
there,  he  wondered?  There  was  little  hope, 
but  he  started  quickly  over  the  old  trail.  The 
gloom  of  evening  fell  swiftly  about  him.  It  was 
almost  dark  when  he  reached  the  other  clearing. 
And  again  his  voice  broke  in  a  groaning  cry. 
There  was  no  cabin  here.  McTabb  had  burned 
it  after  the  passing  of  the  plague.  Where  it 
had  stood  was  now  a  black  and  charred  mass, 
already  partly  covered  by  the  verdure  of  the 
wilderness.  Billy  gripped  his  hands  hard  and 
walked  back  from  it  searchingly.  A  few  steps 
away  he  found  what  McTabb  had  told  him  that 
he  would  find,  a  mound  and  a  sapling  cross. 
And  then,  in  spite  of  all  the  fighting  strength 
that  was  in  him,  he  flung  himself  down  upon 
Isobel's  grave,  and  a  great,  broken  cry  of  grief 
burst  from  his  lips. 

When  he  raised  his  head  a  long  time  afterward 
the  stars  were  shimmering  in  the  sky.     It  was 
a  wonderfully  still  night,  and  all  that  he  could 
273 


ISOBEL 

hear  was  the  ripple  and  song  of  the  spring 
floods  in  the  Little  Beaver.  He  rose  silently  to 
his  feet  and  stood  for  a  few  moments  as  mo- 
tionless as  a  statue  over  the  grave.  Then  he 
turned  and  went  back  over  the  old  trail,  and 
from  the  edge  of  the  clearing  he  looked  back  and 
whispered  to  himself  and  to  her : 

"I'll  come  back  for  you,  Isobel.  I'll  come 
back." 

At  McTabb's  cabin  he  had  left  his  pack.  He 
put  the  straps  over  his  shoulder  and  started 
south  again.  There  was  but  one  move  for 
him  to  make  now.  McTabb  was  known  at 
Le  Pas.  He  got  his  supplies  and  sold  his  furs 
there.  Some  one  at  Le  Pas  would  know  where 
he  had  gone  with  little  Isobel. 

Not  until  he  was  several  miles  distant  from 
the  scene  of  death  and  his  own  broken  hopes 
did  he  spread  out  his  blanket  and  lie  down  for 
the  night.  He  was  up  and  had  breakfast  at 
dawn.  On  the  fourth  day  he  came  to  the  little 
wilderness  outpost — the  end  of  rail — on  the 
Saskatchewan.  Within  an  hour  he  discovered 
that  Rookie  McTabb  had  not  been  to  Le  Pas 
for  nearly  two  years.  No  one  had  seen  him 
with  a  child.  That  same  night  a  construction 
train  was  leaving  for  Etomami,  down  on  the 
274 


AT   THE    END   OF   THE    TRAIL 

main  line,  and  Billy  lost  no  time  in  making  up 
his  mind  what  he  would  do.  He  would  go  to 
Montreal.  If  little  Isobel  was  not  there  she  was 
still  somewhere  in  the  wilderness  with  McTabb. 
Then  he  would  return,  and  he  would  find  her  if  it 
took  him  a  lifetime. 

Days  and  nights  of  travel  followed,  and  dur- 
ing those  days  and  nights  Billy  prayed  that  he 
would  not  find  her  in  Montreal.  If  by  some 
chance  McTabb  had  discovered  her  relatives,  if 
Isobel  had  revealed  her  secret  to  him  before  she 
died,  his  last  hope  in  life  was  gone.  He  did 
not  think  of  wasting  time  in  the  purchase  of  new 
clothes.  That  would  have  meant  the  missing 
of  a  train.  He  still  wore  his  wilderness  outfit, 
even  to  his  fur  cap.  As  he  traveled  farther 
eastward  people  began  to  regard  him  curiously. 
He  got  the  porter  to  shave  off  his  beard.  But 
his  hair  was  long.  His  moccasins  and  German 
socks  were  ragged  and  torn,  and  there  were  rents 
in  his  caribou-skin  coat  and  his  heavy  Hudson's 
Bay  sweater-shirt.  The  hardships  he  had  gone 
through  had  left  their  lines  in  his  face.  There 
was  something  about  him,  outside  of  his  strange 
attire,  that  made  men  look  at  him  more  than 
once.  Women,  more  keenly  observant  than 
the  men,  saw  the  deep-seated  grief  in  his  eyes. 
-275 


ISOBEL 

As  he  approached  Montreal  he  kept  himself 
more  and  more  aloof  from  the  others. 

When  at  last  the  train  came  to  a  stop  at  the 
big  station  in  the  heart  of  the  city  he  walked 
through  the  gates  and  strode  up  the  hill  toward 
Mount  Royal.  It  was  an  hour  or  more  past 
noon,  and  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  morning. 
But  he  had  no  thought  of  hunger.  Twenty 
minutes  later  he  was  at  the  foot  of  the  street 
on  which  Isobel  had  told  him  that  she  had  lived. 
One  by  one  he  passed  the  old  houses  of  brick 
and  stone,  sheltered  behind  their  solid  walls. 
There  had  been  no  change  in  the  years  since  he 
had  been  there.  Half-way  up  the  hill  to  the 
base  of  the  mountain  he  saw  an  old  gardener 
trimming  ivy  about  an  ancient  cannon  near  a 
driveway.  He  stopped  and  asked: 

"Can  you  tell  me  where  Geoffrey  Renaud 
lives?" 

The  old  gardener  looked  at  him  curiously 
for  a  moment  without  speaking.  Then  he 
said: 

"Renaud?  Geoffrey  Renaud?  That  is  his 
house  up  there  behind  the  red-sandstone  wall. 
Is  it  the  house  you  want  to  see — or  Renaud?" 

"Both,"  said  Billy. 

"Geoffrey  Renaud  has  been  dead  for  three 
276 


AT   THE    END   OF   THE   TRAIL 

years,"  informed  the  gardener.  "Are  you  a — 
relative?" 

"No,  no,"  cried  Billy,  trying  to  keep  his 
voice  steady  as  he  asked  the  next  question. 
"There  are  others  there.  Who  are  they?" 

The  old  man  shook  his  head. 

"I  don't  know." 

"There  is  a  little  girl  there — four — five  years 
old,  with  golden  hair — " 

"She  was  playing  in  the  garden  when  I  came 
along  a  few  moments  ago,"  replied  the  gardener. 
"I  heard  her — with  the  dog — 

Billy  waited  to  hear  no  more.  Thanking  his 
informant,  he  walked  swiftly  up  the  hill  to  the 
red -sandstone  wall.  Before  he  came  to  the 
rusted  iron  gate  he,  too,  heard  a  child's  laughter, 
and  it  set  his  heart  beating  wildly.  It  was  just 
over  the  wall.  In  his  eagerness  he  thrust  the 
toe  of  his  moccasined  foot  into  a  break  in  the 
stone  and  drew  himself  up.  He  looked  down 
into  a  great  garden,  and  a  dozen  steps  away, 
close  to  a  thick  clump  of  shrubbery,  he  saw  a 
child  playing  with  a  little  puppy.  The  sun 
gleamed  in  her  golden  hair.  He  heard  her 
joyous  laughter;  and  then,  for  an  instant,  her 
face  was  turned  toward  him. 

In  that  moment  he  forgot  everything,  and 
277 


ISOBEL 

with  a  great,  glad  cry  he  drew  himself  up  and 
sprang  to  the  ground  on  the  other  side. 

"Isobel— Isobel— my  little  Isobel!" 

He  was  beside  her,  on  his  knees,  with  her  in 
his  hungry  arms,  and  for  a  brief  space  the  child 
was  so  frightened  that  she  held  her  breath  and 
stared  at  him  without  a  sound. 

' '  Don't  you  know  me — don't  you  know  me — 
he  almost  sobbed.     ' '  Little  Mystery — Isobel— 

He  heard  a  sound,  a  strange,  stifled  cry,  and 
he  looked  up.  From  behind  the  shrubbery 
there  had  come  a  woman,  and  she  was  staring 
at  Billy  MacVeigh  with  a  face  as  white  as  chalk. 
He  staggered  to  his  feet,  and  he  believed  that  at 
last  he  had  gone  mad.  For  it  was  the  vision  of 
Isobel  Deane  that  he  saw  there,  and  her  blue 
eyes  were  glowing  at  him  as  he  had  seen  them 
for  an  instant  that  night  a  long  time  ago  on  the 
edge  of  the  Barren.  He  could  not  speak.  And 
then,  as  he  staggered  another  step  back  toward 
the  wall,  he  held  out  his  ragged  arms,  without 
knowing  what  he  was  doing,  and  called  her  name 
as  he  had  spoken  it  a  hundred  times  at  night 
beside  his  lonely  campfires.  Starvation,  his 
injury,  weeks  of  illness,  and  his  almost  super- 
human struggle  to  reach  McTabb's  cabin,  and 
after  that  civilization,  had  consumed  his  last 
278 


AT   THE    END   OF   THE   TRAIL 

strength.  For  days  he  had  lived  on  the  re- 
serve forces  of  a  nervous  energy  that  slipped 
away  from  him  now,  leaving  him  dizzy  and 
swaying.  He  fought  to  overcome  the  weakness 
that  seemed  to  have  taken  the  last  ounce  of 
strength  from  his  exhausted  body,  but  in  spite 
of  his.  strongest  efforts  the  sunlit  garden  sud- 
denly darkened  before  his  eyes.  In  that  mo- 
ment the  vision  became  real,  and  as  he  turned 
toward  the  wall  Isobel  Deane  called  him  by 
name;  and  in  another  moment  she  was  at  his 
side,  clutching  him  almost  fiercely  by  the  arms 
and  calling  him  by  name  over  and  over  again. 
The  weakness  and  dizziness  passed  from  him  in 
a  moment,  but  in  that  space  he  seemed  only  to 
realize  that  he  must  get  back — over  the  wall. 

"I  wouldn't  have  come — but — I — I — thought 
you  were — dead,"  he  said.  "They  told  me — 
you  were  dead.  I'm  glad — glad — but  I  would- 
n't have  come — " 

She  felt  the  weight  of  him  for  an  instant  on 
her  arm.  She  knew  the  things  that  were  in  his 
face — starvation,  pain,  the  signs  of  ravage  left 
behind  by  fever.  In  these  moments  Billy  did 
not  see  the  wonderful  look  that  had  come  into 
her  own  face  or  the  wonderful  glow  in  her  eyes. 

"It  was  Indian  Joe's  mother  who  died,"  he 
279 


ISOBEL 

heard  her  say.  "And  since  then  we  have  been 
waiting — waiting — waiting — little  Isobel  and  I. 
I  went  away  north,  to  David's  grave,  and  I  saw 
what  you  had  done,  and  what  you  had  burned 
into  the  wood.  Some  day,  I  knew,  you'd 
come  back  to  me.  We've  been  waiting — for 
you—" 

Her  voice  was  barely  more  than  a  whisper, 
but  Billy  heard  it;  and  all  at  once  his  dizziness 
was  gone,  and  he  saw  the  sunlight  shining  in 
Isobel' s  bright  hair  and  the  look  in  her  face  and 
eyes. 

"I'm  sorry — sorry — so  sorry  I  said  what  I 
did — about  you — killing  him,"  she  went  on. 
"You  remember — I  said  that  if  I  got  well — " 

"Yes—" 

"And  you  thought  I  meant  that  if  I  got  well 
you  should  go  away — and  you  promised — and 
kept  your  promise.  But  I  couldn't  finish.  It 
didn't  seem  right — then.  I  wanted  to  tell  you 
— out  there — that  I  was  sorry — and  that  if  I 
got  well  you  could  come  to  me  again — some  day 
— somewhere — and  then — " 

"Isobel!" 

"And  now — you  may  tell  me  again  what  you 
told  me  out  on  the  Barren — a  long  time  ago." 

"Isobel— Isobel— " 

280 


AT  THE    END   OF   THE   TRAIL 

"You  understand" — she  spoke  softly — "you 
understand,  it  cannot  happen  now — perhaps 
not  for  another  year.  But  now" — she  drew 
a  little  nearer — "you  may  kiss  me,"  she  said. 
"And  then  you  must  kiss  little  Isobel.  And 
we  don't  want  you  to  go  very  far  away  again. 
It's  lonely — terribly  lonely  all  by  ourselves  in 
the  city — and  we're  glad  you've  come — so 

gad—" 

Her  voice  broke  to  a  sobbing  whisper,  and  as 
Billy  opened  his  great,  ragged  arms  and  caught 
her  to  him  he  heard  that  whisper  again,  saying, 
"We're  glad — glad — glad  you've  come  back  to 
us." 

"And  I— may— stay?" 

She  raised  her  face,  glorious  in  its  welcome. 

"If  you  want  me — still." 

At  last  he  believed.  But  he  could  not  speak. 
He  bent  his  face  to  hers,  and  for  a  moment  they 
stood  thus,  while  from  behind  the  shrubbery 
came  the  sound  of  little  Isobel' s  joyous  laughter. 


THE   END 


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